


The Last Duty

by Pygmy Puff (ppuff)



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Javert Survives, Competent!Javert, Detective Work, Enemies to Friends, Gen, Javert Derailing, Javert's Existential Crisis, Minor Character Death, Plot, Post-Revolution, TW: lost child, TW: suicidal thoughts, Valjean's Parental Angst, missing person, working together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-04 19:05:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 90,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3083999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ppuff/pseuds/Pygmy%20Puff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the barricades fell, Jean Valjean went back to Rue de l’Homme Armé, No. 7 and Inspector Javert went to the Seine. But their paths crossed again when Valjean came home to find an empty house. Will seeking out the inspector be enough to save Cosette, and to save Javert himself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - Disappearance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea for this fic first came to me when I thought about what would save Javert from jumping -- can anyone or anything truly save him for good? The idea blossomed into a NaNoWriMo attempt, which then quickly withered like a night cereus into a spectacular failure. But! I'm now picking up the pieces and plan to finish this. The outline is done, I just need to fill it up with story :-)

_They entered the street. It was, as usual, empty. Javert followed Jean Valjean. They reached No. 7. Jean Valjean rapped. The door opened._

_“Very well,” said Javert. “Go up.”_

_He added with a strange expression and as if he were making an effort in speaking in such a way: “I will wait here for you.”_

_Jean Valjean looked at Javert. This manner of proceeding was little in accordance with Javert’s habits. Still, that Javert should now have a sort of haughty confidence in him, the confidence of the cat which grants the mouse the liberty of the length of her claw, resolved as Jean Valjean was to deliver himself up and make an end of it, could not surprise him very much. He opened the door, went into the house, cried to the porter who was in bed and who had drawn the cord without getting up: “It is I!” and mounted the stairs._

_On reaching the first story, he paused. All painful paths have their halting-places. The window on the landing, which was a sliding window, was open. As in many old houses, the stairway admitted the light, and had a view upon the street. The street lamp, which stood exactly opposite, threw some rays upon the stairs, which produced an economy in light._

_Jean Valjean, either to take breath or mechanically, looked out of this window. He leaned over the street. It is short, and the lamp lighted it from one end to the other. Jean Valjean was bewildered with amazement; there was nobody there._

_Javert was gone._

 

Pushing aside the incongruity of what he knew to be Javert’s habits and the present circumstance he found himself in, Jean Valjean continued mounting the stairs until he reached the level he shared with Cosette. He paused at the landing, staring at the door, dumbfounded. Was this a dream, the fantasy of a desperate mind incapable of facing reality? Or perhaps he had died at the barricades after all, and it was only his spirit that now floated back to his home to bid his dear Cosette goodbye. Even Inspector Javert could not chain the dead.

But—he gazed down at his hand poised over the door handle, and there was a shadow,  _his_ shadow, dark upon dark, more solid than anything he had ever seen—no, this was neither the realm of dreams nor of the dead. This was a world inhabited by Jean Valjean, hunted like a mouse over the years by a cat who had finally had his victim in hand, ready to crush and devour, only to then inexplicably vanish.

He was not fooled. Javert could return yet. But he had spent the past ten years clinging onto hope; so Jean Valjean chose faith once again, daring to believe in a freedom he did not deserve. Yes, Javert would return, eventually. But now, _now_ he remained free. Now he was spared the humiliation of having cold iron clasped over his wrists in front of a horrified Cosette. Perhaps even the inspector was capable of mercy.

He turned the door and entered. His heart pounded thunderously in his ears, but he dared not make a sound. He walked silently, lest he disturbed the slumber of old Toussaint and of Cosette.

He stole into his own bed chamber. He peeled off the clothing that no longer offered any protection against the night chill—they were filthy—setting them aside to be burned later. He cleaned what mud and grime he could off his body from the small wash basin in the room, and, lest he soil his nightgown, put on a fresh set of workman’s clothing.

He looked out the window again, as if to reassure himself that the past half an hour was indeed not a dream.

No, there was no Javert. The inspector had gone.

For now.

It wasn’t until Jean Valjean slipped into the kitchen looking for bread—hunger had won the battle with sleep—that he realized something was amiss. Toussaint, the ever faithful portress, was wont to leave the dishes from supper unwashed until the morning. As she had never neglected bringing the smallest fork to a perfect shine under the day’s light, Jean Valjean never questioned her routine.

But tonight, there was neither plate nor fork set aside for tomorrow’s washing.

Cosette hadn’t taken supper. Was she ill?

Forgetting the bread, Jean Valjean took the single candle flickering in the dark, the one he had set onto the kitchen table, back into his hand. His body reflexively forced itself to swallow the one bit of bread he had put into his mouth, ignoring the pain; his throat had suddenly gone dry. Dread washed over him like tall waves overpowering the shore. He had spent the past day intent only on keeping Marius alive, but what about Cosette? He never told her of his sudden disappearance, nor had he enough charity in his heart for Marius at the time of his departure to assure Cosette that she would see her love again. Surely, his daughter must still believe that they were bound for England in a day’s time! Had she shut herself in her bedchamber from grief? If that was so, then the fault was his, and nothing he could do would atone for his dear Cosette’s broken heart.

With quick steps, he reached the door to Cosette’s room. “Cosette?” he called, softly so as to not disturb her slumber but loud enough for anyone still awake to hear. There was no response.

Carefully, Jean Valjean turned the knob and pushed the door open. In the dark, the sole candlelight seemed intent on keeping the darkness as undisturbed as possible, stubbornly refusing to reveal anything beyond an arm’s length to the eye. There was the small desk where Cosette would compose her letters, where he had first found the blotter that mirrored her missive to Marius. There was the armoire that held her dresses. There was the wash basin with the mirror, where Cosette would sing her sweet songs as she performed her ablutions and what dressing up that young ladies of her age felt compelled to do before presenting themselves to the world in the morning.

He shined the light deeper into the bedchamber.

There was the bed.  _Only_ the bed.

The candle fell onto the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading -- I hope to update soon. Have a very Happy New Year!


	2. In Which Help Was Sought from the Enemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean Valjean is willing to do anything to find Cosette. Even if it means going to the police.

If Rue de l’Homme Armé had not been so deserted and old Toussaint not so deaf, the singular cry of “Cosette!”—a primal howl that roared louder than the most violent clap of thunder—would have chilled the very heart of any soul unfortunate enough to understand the desperation behind such a sound. Jean Valjean screamed not only as a parent who had lost his child, but also as a man who until an hour ago had resigned himself to being forever parted with the light of his life. Fate could not have been more pitiless than to dangle the promise of a family reunited before Jean Valjean, whispering a freedom unfettered from future threat of separation, only to then snatch it away in utter cruelty.

He slipped downward, like a marionette cut free of its strings, slumping onto the ground. In truth, Jean Valjean very much felt like a soul cut loose from God’s favor at the moment, leaving him staring into the worst future imaginable: a future without Cosette. Was this the punishment for his sins after all, a punishment agreed upon between the Almighty and the Inspector, so grave were his offenses that simply returning him to Toulon would be but a mockery to Law and Justice?

How long did Jean Valjean remained on his knees, huddled into himself and body seizing with violent sobs, he did not know. A small part of his mind berated his weakness, of wasting time on tears when not a further minute must be lost to commence his search for Cosette. But grief and panic did not obey reason and, for what must have been hours, Jean Valjean wept bitter tears until no more would come, adding exhaustion upon his already weary body.

At length, the form of an old man rose on feeble legs, arms waving about to the front and sides in attempt to regain balance, to find his way in the dark. He stumbled out of the bedchamber. Reluctant as he was to pause to don his hat and outer coat and to pull on his boots, Jean Valjean did all he could to make himself presentable as a gentleman of France. Had he not given away his National Guard uniform at the barricades, he would have put it on in favor of the workman’s clothing hidden beneath a fine but modest-looking coat. He needed help from the authorities to find Cosette, and the convict in him was determined to hide his identity for as long as possible to ensure Cosette would have a chance to be found.

-

Lantern in hand, Jean Valjean hurried down Rue de l’Homme Armé and onto a wider street. Having spent years avoiding the police, he now knew precisely which streets to walk toward for the express purpose of encountering a gendarme. He walked with an air of intention unknown to the convict inside him; there was determination in his steps.

It did not take long for him to run into two young gendarmes patrolling in an area not far from one of the barricades destroyed but hours ago. Debris decorated the grim path, with the night sky offering what small mercy it could to disguise splashes of blood as merely darker hues of the stones.

“Halt!” one of the gendarmes shouted at the same time Jean Valjean took his cap in hand and bowed, uttering a respectful, “Officers.”

Outwardly, his voice was steady and his bow carried the practiced ease of a man of respectable origin who had both received and rendered gestures of respect since the days of his youth. Inwardly, however, Jean Valjean trembled at being in such proximity with not one, but two, officers of the law. He kept his eyes downcast, taking in a slow breath to steady himself, to keep his body from recoiling out of instinct.

The other gendarme, eyeing Jean Valjean and ascertaining that the old man was neither a scoundrel nor a threat, addressed him in a milder tone: “Monsieur, the streets are not safe at this hour, nor, I presume, for the next several days. What are you doing strolling about the streets, when most of Paris is asleep?”

Jean Valjean raised his eyes then, and noted in the lantern light dancing across the visages of the boys—for that was who they were—that there were dark circles under their eyes. The gendarmes looked weary, gaunt. If the revolution had worn even youths into shadows, then he must seem to them like a specter that could be stretched so thin as to become part of the night, leaving his lantern mysteriously dangling through the streets in midair. No, the past day had not been kind to anyone, not even to his precious Cosette.

At the thought, his heart clenched as if responding to a stake being driven through it.

“Officers, I must beg for your help, for my daughter is lost. She was in the house when I left her—I had an errand to run earlier in the day, you see. When I returned, she was gone! This is why I am wandering about tonight. Please, assist me to find her. I would be most grateful.”

The gendarmes looked at each other. One shook his head as if in a warning; the other shrugged his shoulders.

“Monsieur,” the more compassionate one spoke, “I am sorry for your loss. But Paris is in chaos and you are not the only one with a missing relative. There are missing person reports flooding the Prefecture even now. Give us a description of your daughter and we will keep our eyes out for her. But beyond that, I’m afraid we cannot offer more help.”

“Officers –” Jean Valjean began, but one look at the debris on the street provided all that he needed to know. The city was—and would be—recovering from hundreds of lives lost and bodies missing for the weeks to come. The disappearance of a young girl, not associated with the revolution, did not warrant the dispensing of additional police resources.

_Oh Cosette, what has happened to you!_

Resigned, Jean Valjean provided a description of Cosette to the gendarmes. “She is an angel,” he did not hesitate to add as a conclusion, “the most innocent and beautiful mademoiselle you will cast your eyes upon. Please, Messieurs, tell me what I should do, how I can find her.”

“Monsieur…”

“Fauchelevent,” he supplied. After so many years, the lie of his identity rolled easily off his tongue.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent,” the kinder officer said, “we will help as much as we can. After all, we will be patrolling the streets for the next day. Since your daughter disappeared in this area, it is likely that she will run into us if she hasn’t gone far from here. Where is your home, so we might send you word should we find Mademoiselle Cosette?”

Jean Valjean hesitated. Yes, his freedom had already been forfeit when he disclosed the same information to Javert several hours ago, but this did not mean he would fall willingly back into the galleys…

“Rue Plumet, No. 55.”

The sterner gendarme nodded, signifying the end to their exchange. Jean Valjean cast them a final pleading look.  _Please_ , his very countenance shouted.  _Anything to find Cosette._

This earned him a sympathetic smile from the kinder gendarme. “I regret we cannot offer you more help, Monsieur. Police resources are low, you see. Perhaps you can seek help from the police station near the Place du Chatelet. The Prefecture has sent many officers there to await further orders. At least you can file a report directly with one of the inspectors on duty. With an open case, the station would be obliged to investigate until a conclusion can be reached.”

They did not wait for Jean Valjean’s final bow and “thank you” before continuing on their patrol. Weariness had slumped both youths’ shoulders, but at the moment, it was Jean Valjean’s body who stooped lower, his hand trembling as he placed his hat back onto his head, his heart praying for a renewed bout of strength that would not come. Dragging one heavy foot in front of another, he headed for the police station house, another place he had fastidiously avoided since he first arrived Paris. He did not miss the irony that he was now offering himself like a slaughtered lamb into the mouths of wolves. Would Javert be there? Would he permit him time to speak, to make his supplication—when he had already asked so much of the inspector to delay his arrest—before he would have to face the unavoidable moment of a wrathful flame engulfing this pitiful sacrifice?

_The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit: a broken and a contrite heart, O God, thou wilt not despise._

Cosette was worth a thousand prison sentences. Steeling his resolve, Jean Valjean forged on.

-

If the streets of Paris were in chaos, then the disarray of the station house was worse. Inside the Place du Chatelet police station, the sergeant of police who was supposed to guard the entrance was nowhere to be found, leaving an empty desk and chair by the unguarded entrance. Lamps fixed on the wall spanned the interior of the building, giving the illusion that it was still daytime—Lady Justice was blind, but she did not sleep. A door separated the visitor’s area from the officers’ workstations. Jean Valjean approached and gave it a tentative push. The door wasn’t locked. He could hear tired voices snapping at each other inside, the sound of agitated footfalls, the rustling of too many stacks of paper. Nobody seemed to pay attention to a stranger hesitating by the door, the gentleman’s appearance not sufficient to cloak the slight tremble of his body and the tense set of his shoulders. No eye saw the pressing of his lips into a thin line, for chewing on his lower lip would be too unseemly, too revealing. Even inside, not a single officer looked his way when Jean Valjean, fugitive from the law with a life sentence dangling like a noose over his head—a man far from the upright courtier Daniel—invited himself into the lion’s den.

He scanned the room quickly, schooling his face into the impassive blandness of M. Madeleine. His pretense was rendered more perfect by his utter invisibility.

Javert was not here.

In fact, most of the ranked officers were not present, if an almost roomful of deserted workstations was evidence of his observation. The few officers that remained, all on one side of the room, were arguing about whom from nearby police stations they could borrow for a time to send out into Paris’s streets. Several poor souls who appeared to be clerks were surrounded by impossible mountains of files and documents, and Jean Valjean did not need to see their miserable expressions to know how overwhelmed they felt by a seemingly endless stream of new cases and reports to be filed.

Distancing himself from the occupied side of the room, Jean Valjean walked through the workstations. He reached the far end of the room before returning, unsure of what he was looking for. Still no one stopped him. He paused in his pacing, brows furrowing. The post-barricade chaos made it abundantly clear that no one in the station house would be willing or able to tend to his request. But if the police couldn’t help, then who could? He slipped a hand into his coat pocket and wrapped his fingers around several gold coins. He could ask a few of the gamins he knew well if they had seen Cosette. But if she didn’t leave the house willingly and had been forcibly taken, then no sight of her would have been seen by either police or street boys.

As his mind swirled with musings that only muddied his options and left him more helpless, Jean Valjean let his eyes wander. The gendarmes were still too busy arguing among themselves to notice him, the clerks too busy to lift their eyes. He looked toward the door, his heart beating at a quickening pace. He should leave before he was discovered. Yes, his arrest would be delayed for another day, for God had heard his prayer and had allowed him to search for Cosette before he would lose her forever. Offering a quick thanks heavenward, Jean Valjean turned to face the door, his eyes sweeping over a humble table with a straw-seated chair that was located toward the entrance.

Something on that workstation caught his eyes: an envelope sitting atop the impeccable surface, the ink forming the intended recipient’s name not yet fully dried under the faint, heatless light of several torches on the far wall. The letter, for that was what M. Madeleine had seen thousands of times, was addressed as “a note to the administration,” likely a missive meant for the Prefect himself, waiting to be either discovered or delivered.

He at once recognized the sharp, angular handwriting.

“Javert,” he whispered. The familiar fear burst through his veins like the shattering of a cannon that had always been buried somewhere deep inside his heart. Was this his condemnation at last, the inspector’s report to the Prefect detailing the way Jean Valjean was to be tracked down, surrounded, and arrested?

A day ago, he had resigned his fate into the hands of the inspector. But now, with the whereabouts of Cosette still unknown, he refused to remain a sitting duck awaiting the hunter’s fatal shot.

He approached the desk, careful to keep his steps measured and his posture upright, like M. Madeleine walking the length of his factory searching for diligent workers to praise. His heart skipped a beat when he thought a gendarme had lifted his head to look at him, but when he chanced a sideways glance at the group of working men, all heads were once again focused on some map laid out on a table. He let out a held breath. Five more steps, four, three. He was almost there.

When a gendarme finally realized a stranger had entered the officers’ work area and demanded how he could help the good Monsieur, Jean Valjean was leaning with one shaking arm planted on the workstation, his other hand buried inside a pocket that now held Javert’s letter of condemnation; his breaths were quick and labored. The gendarme needed no convincing to believe the panicking father’s tale of a missing daughter. A file was quickly drawn up and added to the towering pile of paperwork for the poor clerks to process. A final word of reassurance that sounded hollow even to Jean Valjean’s ever optimistic heart, and he was once again left alone.

Jean Valjean left the station house at the Place du Chatelet more lost than when he had first entered, having become none the wiser on how to search for Cosette. The calm that he had been forcing upon himself was beginning to unravel, the crumbling of his current state of mind exacerbated by the nervousness that he barely managed to hold at bay during his visit to the Prefecture. As he descended the steps of the building, his legs almost gave out, fueled on only by the very same nervous energy that he could no longer suppress.

He had survived a visit to the police station.

He had no destination in mind; anywhere but home, anywhere where Cosette might be found. Traversing the plaza diagonally—for that seemed to be the shortest path to take the convict away from the light of Law and Justice and back into the night, Jean Valjean allowed the growing roar of the Seine to add to the cacophony of his tumultuous mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I managed to write a lot over the New Year's weekend and hope to post the next chapter mid-week-ish next week. Thanks for reading!


	3. In Which a Mortal Offense Was Aborted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert was ready to resign from God. But would his new master permit him?

_Javert leaned both elbows on the parapet, his chin resting in both hands, and, while his nails were mechanically twined in the abundance of his whiskers, he meditated._

_A novelty, a revolution, a catastrophe had just taken place in the depths of his being; and he had something upon which to examine himself._

_Javert was undergoing horrible suffering._

_He was forced to acknowledge that goodness did exist. This convict had been good. And he himself, unprecedented circumstance, had just been good also. So he was becoming depraved._

_He found that he was a coward. He conceived a horror of himself._

_Javert_ _’s ideal was not to be human, to be grand, to be sublime; it was to be irreproachable._

_Now, he had just failed in this._

_Javert bent his head and gazed. All was black. Nothing was to be distinguished. A sound of foam was audible; but the river could not be seen._

_Javert remained motionless for several minutes, gazing at this opening of shadow; he considered the invisible with a fixity that resembled attention. The water roared. All at once he took off his hat and placed it on the edge of the quay._

 

Javert stared at the invisible waters below, an overwhelming sense of despair crushing his heart that was yet too tender from its new birth. He didn’t want this, didn’t want a heart. It was hoisted upon him just as life was forcibly stuffed into closed fists, into a body that should have died at the barricades. And yet he still breathed, ragged breath after ragged breath, the mutiny of a body too cowardly to give up what it did not deserve.

Animals were peculiar, he mused, apropos to nothing. No word was needed to instruct the young to stand, yet without fail, a new foal would know how to trot on feeble legs moments after its birth. Saints, too, knew how to tread upon the path of mercy at the moment of their second birth.

Javert was neither foal nor saint.

The waters raged and swirled; they crashed and foamed. They followed nature’s law impeccably—agnostic, amoral. The Seine had the power to extinguish a life under its crushing waves; it also sustained the lives of Paris’s numerous gutter dwellers by yielding the occasional fish. Both were natural. Irreproachable.

He was no longer irreproachable. The scales had fallen from his eyes and he could see clearly now, the speck in Jean Valjean’s eye golden like the halo of white hair that he wore, reflecting back a hideous creature with planks as his eyes, a creature the world once knew as Inspector Javert. Had he sought to be a good man—a bad man, even!—he may have succeeded. But irreproachability was never within his grasp, because, Javert realized now, it would only be possible if he’d never met Jean Vajean.

Compared with the turmoil in his heart, the water’s waves seemed calm. The true Master who demanded both mercy and justice now overwhelmed his very consciousness; he was under a light so bright that his mind teetered on the edge of bursting from the sheer incomprehensibility of it all. What did one do to flee from an omniscient Being? Instinctively, Javert recoiled into darkness. But even darkness seemed to reject him, the river sloshing and spitting up waves as if revolted by the mere suggestion that it must embrace a traitor cast its way.

An eye for an eye, this he could always understand. But this new Law that was being impressed upon his newly discovered heart—its messenger none other than a convict-turned-saint whom Javert refused to admire but could no longer despise—this, he could not conceive. Repay good for evil! Cover multitudes of wrong with mercy! Extinguish hatred with unconditional pardon!

What was the world turning into?

Jean Valjean had slain Javert even with the life-giving flicks of his knife. In loosening his bonds at the barricades, Valjean had believed he’d only freed a captive from the schoolboys. No, his kindness had done more, for the knife also severed the ties that tethered Javert blindly to the law.

And now that he was free, had been given sight, he was lost.

He mounted the parapet, his eyes never leaving the void below. An occasional gleam of reflected moonlight reminded him that he was not yet gazing at the mouth of hell—there was the water of death to pass through first, his final baptism of shame. Submitting to the waters would be fitting, a traitor’s proper fate.

One step. That was all it would take. One quick but eternal Fall.

“Javert!”

The voice was brimming with surprise. He knew this voice. He wondered if it was his own mind supplying the impossibility.

“Monsieur l’Inspecteur, please…”

He turned his head then, dismayed to find the owner of the voice to have materialized, drawn into existence from somewhere inside his mind. The spectral form gleamed under the dim night sky before him.

Of all places, and of all people…

“…I know I have asked you many favors already, but please, just this one more, Javert. Please, help me.”

“Help you!” He laughed, the grating sound of one pushing his chair back too quickly. His body was suddenly seized with something like a taut string arching his back, reducing him from his full height into the opposite of a bow, a gesture of defiance against heaven. His arms flung out sideways.  _Come get me then_ ,his very body threw down the challenge to the Almighty,  _deliver me to your hell before your perfect saint does it first_. He didn’t fear falling; there was no need. His soul was already lost to the abyss, it was only reasonable for his body to follow. It would be appropriate, he mused, to have Valjean’s voice to finally push him over the precipice.

But he didn’t fall. His eyes landed once again on the convict-saint, on the object of his internal turmoil for the past hours.

And he realized he could barely recognize the distressed man in front of him.

In the darkness of the night, one could no longer rely on his regular senses to guide him. Instinctively, Javert turned inward to behold Valjean with his mind’s eye, observing him through thirty years of knowing this man as convict and mayor, as criminal and saint. After finally conceding tonight that the good man he’d refused to acknowledge was part of Valjean all along, Javert had thought there was nothing left of Jean Valjean that he didn’t already know.

It appeared that God was enjoying seeing him admit his wrongs far too much.

“Jean Valjean,” he tested the syllables on his tongue as if speaking the words for the first time. The name felt different when spoken without malice. It was like the greeting of a dog to its master, the familiarity of it. But a dog would bark and wag its tail with elation. Javert only felt confused, terrified. “Why are you here? Why do you never go away?”

_Who are you, a man I no longer know?_

Valjean’s expression darkened even as his eyes grew wild. Of all the words he would use to describe Valjean, “hysterical” had never crossed his mind. And yet no other word could describe the expression on that normally imperturbable countenance at this very instant.

Jean Valjean was scared.

“Cosette, she’s gone! I can’t find her, and I don’t know where she would be. I must have grieved her by insisting that we go to England. The move would force her away from her love, you see, the boy Marius, the same one you rescued. It’s my fault. I should not have harbored hatred in my heart for him. I was afraid he’d take Cosette away from me, and now she’s gone. God sees all things. He is punishing me. But at the expense of Cosette! She’s innocent! I tried to seek help, but the police cannot spare any man for the disappearance of a girl. Not the gendarmes patrolling the streets. Not even the officers stationed at the Place du Chatelet. Javert, Monsieur l’Inspecteur, I know this is daring of me. But please help me find her, I beg you. My life is yours, I’ve already told you. But there is no need to destroy a perfectly innocent life due to my sins. Not an angel as beautiful as Cosette…”

Javert, whose mind until Valjean’s appearance had been singularly focused on contemplating the chance of certain death if he were to jump off the parapet and into the Seine, was not quite recovered from this unexpected disturbance to understand Valjean’s hurried words. And so his mind seized upon the one absurdity that he did comprehend:

“You went inside a police station? Have you lost your mind?”

This halted Valjean’s tirade but did not manage to reawaken sense into him.

“Of course I went inside. For where else would I be able to file a report with the police?”

Over the years, he had used numerous words to describe Valjean, from brutish to fraudulent to hypocritical. But never stupid. Perhaps he should reevaluate his view.

“Oh, for –” He took a breath to steady himself, squeezing his eyes shut at the same time, either to drive away the hallucination from his mind or to flee from the insanity of a real Jean Valjean, he didn’t know which. What he knew was that when he opened his eyes, the sound of the Seine had reduced to a whisper in his head. His body knew but one way to relate to Jean Valjean: he was Inspector Javert again.

Waving a hand, he said, “Let’s start from the beginning. Who is this Cosette?”

Even in the darkness, Valjean’s raised eyebrow conveyed his dismay clearly:  _Really? Have you forgotten?_

A flash of memory sprung to the surface of his mind.

“The wh – Fantine’s daughter? You truly have taken her in and raised her?”

“And you, you truly believe I was making an excuse at the time, didn’t you?”

Valjean’s voice was quiet, slightly pained but without malice. And yet these words brought him back to a town near the sea many years ago, back to the very hospital where a mother had died and a mayor was desperately trying to fulfill a promise. Javert was full of righteous indignation then. Now, Valjean’s words had turned around the arrow of accusation to point at him, driving it deep into Javert’s heart.

_Another wrong added to the list. Are you enjoying this, God?_

He refused to revisit that night in Montreuil-sur-Mer with the man before him. “Cosette, then,” he said, bringing matters back into Valjean’s present distress, “she is missing. The police will not assist you, which considering what happened recently, is entirely understandable. You mentioned something about England.”

Valjean lowered his head, looking contrite, and Javert understood immediately.

“You wanted to escape me. A sensible decision, I should add. What has taken you so long?” Not caring to hear Valjean’s excuses, he pressed on: “And this Marius, the revolutionary you dragged through the sewers if I’m not mistaken. The boy is connected to Cosette. Lovers, perhaps? So this is why you were at the barricades risking your life for that idiot –”

He stopped abruptly. Valjean had saved more than one idiot at the barricades. He now owed the man a debt, owed him his very life. The thought tore open his heart again to the smarting pain of unfamiliar sensations.

A slave had no right to determine his own fate. His master was demanding a favor, and Javert must submit.

He had thought he’d been rendered eternally unfit for duty. But it appeared duty was required of him still.

He jumped down from the parapet.

Valjean stood before him, slightly bowing and cap in one hand, the perfect form of supplication. Though shaken and terrified, he remained respectful, composed, patiently waiting to be told either yes or to go away. The irony was not lost on Javert: Jean Valjean believed himself to be his prisoner. But it was this pauper king who held the life of a gutter wretch in his very hands.

His heart seized then, the gasps of a heart dying to its own will, refusing to yield to its new master. _I can still arrest you_ , it cried, a desperate offering to Lady Justice who had disowned him. Would she accept him back into her fold? Or was he so tainted that he could no longer grovel, could not even sweep the marble steps outside her palace?

Valjean tensed, hand gripping his cap tighter, and Javert understood his mistake. He had spoken the words aloud.

Curious, he waited for Valjean’s response. What would he say this time?

If one could put words to the movements of the body, from trembling limbs to a sudden squaring of the shoulders to the gathering of resolve so palpable even under the night sky, Javert at that moment would have chosen the words _Jean Valjean_. Something terrifying had awakened inside the man—the king had returned from a faraway journey to assume his reign.

Valjean lifted his head not as a slave compelled to surrender to his punishment, but as a warrior ready to fight, his eyes gleaming with righteous determination. “You will still have me,” said a calm voice, a dangerous tone promising unthinkable consequences with the ferocity of a mother bear protecting her cubs, a warning: “but I will remind you, Inspector, that earlier today you permitted me to first say farewell to my daughter.” He paused, forcing Javert to acknowledge the promise. “No, Javert. I will not go with you until that is accomplished.”

Jean Valjean knew him too well, he realized, and knew to use logic and rules to entrap him. He wondered what Valjean would do if he were to tilt his head back and laugh. To laugh at them both, to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Would a growl rumble deep in that throat? Would that body of enormous strength be hurled like a cannon ball at him, pushing his back against the parapet, tipping him over into the Seine after all? Had Valjean not yet realized that he had won the fight already, had won it a day ago with three simple words: _You are free_?

They held each other’s gaze, and Javert felt his heart tremor one last time, falling on its knees at last before its rightful owner.

He inclined his head, one sharp nod.

“Very well, I will help you find your daughter.” He paused. “But you should know that I am no longer with the police. I resigned.”

“You? Resigned?” Valjean asked, confused, all propriety forgotten. “Why do you always feel the need to denounce yourself? A resignation must be both tendered  _and_ accepted, Javert. I doubt the Prefect would accept the resignation of an exemplary inspector –”

“The Prefect is not M. Madeleine,” Javert snapped. “Besides, I have learned my lesson from that humiliating incident, which I would appreciate you to never bring up again. This time, I composed a letter.”

Valjean looked at him oddly, first in consideration and then with something akin to amusement. He then dug out a letter from his pocket. “Do you mean this letter?”

“Val – how –”

“Once a thief, always a thief, I suppose,” said Valjean, smiling. “Forgive me, Inspector. I had assumed this to be your instructions to the Prefect on how to capture me. My words to you are sincere: I will still go with you. But you must understand, not before I know Cosette is safe.”

Valjean did not avert his gaze, and Javert saw in those eyes a protectiveness reserved only for parents over their children. Another selfless act of Saint Valjean’s. Javert couldn’t be bothered to feel astonished anymore. He snatched the letter from Valjean’s hand and stuffed it into his greatcoat’s pocket, feeling relieved despite himself.

“For this one time only, you are forgiven,” he said. Valjean looked stunned. He smirked. “Come, you impossible lawbreaker. You said Cosette disappeared from your home? We should begin searching for clues there.”

And with that, Jean Valjean ignited a spark within the inspector to resume investigating, to carry out duty and justice despite having his entire life’s convictions shattered into a thousand splintered shards by this very man.

The dark waters of the Seine continued to roar. But they would have to wait for another day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first part of the chapter was, of course, quoted from the Brick. Same with the first part of the Prologue, which I forgot to mention.


	4. In Which the Inspector Came to an Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the hours just before dawn, one's mind becomes the most haunted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals with Valjean and Javert processing their present circumstances. I added trigger warnings to the tags just to be safe.

When the two men reached Rue de l’Homme Armé, No. 7, the first glimmer of daylight was breaking through the sky. Neither having eaten since before they reached the barricades, Jean Valjean forced half a loaf of bread onto Javert while he fought through a complete lack of appetite to ingest the other half, each tasteless morsel swallowed with great difficulty under Javert’s unrelenting scrutiny.

They ate in silence, just as they had walked in silence. And as Valjean had nowhere to turn, he turned his attention to Javert.

Words that ought never be associated with each other now filled his mind, like “Javert” and “disheveled,” “Javert” and “helper,” and “Javert” and “respectful” (calling him _vous_!). Or—since this game insisted on including the inspector in every pair of words—he could think of a host of traits that he would once readily used to describe the very opposite of his pursuer: subdued, weary, haunted… broken. It was as if he had molted over the past day, shedding the outer skin that Valjean knew so well to reveal a stranger within—a Javert chewing on bread. A Javert with dull eyes. A Javert that smelled of sweat and grime, like a wet cat whose stench wafted stronger when it felt more threatened.

A _human_ Javert.

What did he witness at the barricades before Valjean set him free, or what did he experience afterwards, during those fateful hours between his disappearance from outside of this place and when they met again at the bridge, to have compelled such changes from the inspector?

On a different day, under different circumstances, Jean Valjean may have yielded to the disquiet in his heart—the instinct that had kept him free all these years—to consider the incongruity of Javert. There was most certainly something amiss with the inspector. But today was not a different day, and it was Cosette who demanded his full attention.

A tremor passed through him, waking him as if from a dream back into reality. Here they were, sitting in the comfort of a home and eating bread, but what of Cosette? Was she safe? Had any harm befallen her? Would she be found?

“Can we not waste any more time?” he asked upon swallowing his final morsel, pleading like a child begging to be excused after having eaten all of his vegetables. “If Cosette has been kidnapped –”

“Then she is either held in relative safety until a ransom letter can be delivered to one M. Fauchelevent at a more godly hour, or she is dead.”

“Javert!”

The inspector gave Valjean a most withering glare. “I speak from experience, nothing more, nothing less.” He ignored the flashing of furious eyes sent his way and pointed toward the larger room. “Your bedchamber, I assume? I need you to go in there. Sleep, read a book, clean off more of the sewer muck from your body. I don’t care. Just stay out of my way.”

“Surely I can help with something!”

“You can help by not hovering about me. I am here as an investigator, not as your houseguest. I need to collect and examine evidence. I have no use for your commentary on how Cosette used to sit in this chair or eat from that table. I cannot tell you how long it will take for me to search through your home. I only know that I require undisturbed lengths of time that will feel like agony for you. Now, as I have told you numerous times in Montreuil-sur-Mer, this is police business. Please, Valjean, get out of the way.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but thought better of it and brought it closed again. With a final look no less severe than his earlier glare, Vajean consented to being evicted from his own kitchen, each stomp of his feet a loud objection to being cast aside as useless.

Maybe it was better this way, he thought after a long moment, in his room, after the vibration of the slammed door dissipated from both walls and mind. Maybe it was better to maintain distance from the inspector. Here, he could escape through the window, could scale down the building’s outer walls and into freedom. But what did freedom matter without Cosette? He knew his own effort to search the streets of Paris would be futile, and if he slipped away this time, then his next encounter with Javert would most certainly end in chains.

It was better this way, he repeated, a mantra in his head. Slumping onto his bed, he felt too exhausted to utter a plea heavenward. Javert led an impeccable life. Surely he was God’s agent sent to him both as a help and as his final judgment. Valjean vowed with all the sincerity he could muster: he would gladly accept both with a willing heart.

His head fell upon a pillow. A hoarse chuckle escaped of its own volition, even as tears welled behind closed eyelids. To have spent the past hours with Javert and not with Cosette! To have first lost his daughter to young love and now to lose her person! Everything was too absurd to be real, too frightening.

Tears rolled down his face. _This is a nightmare_ , he thought, begged whoever would listen to agree with him.

Perhaps when he woke again, he would discover that it was indeed a dream after all.

-

Javert watched until Valjean disappeared into his room. The weight of this heretofore unimaginable play of events was not lost on him: a day ago, he would have considered the mere suggestion of letting a convict out of his sight preposterous. And yet here he was, in the very convict’s house, dismissing him into his room without a shred of doubt that the man would remain there as told.

He briefly considered sleep, casting an eye toward the sitting room with threadbare couches, but quickly dismissed the idea. There was no need. Once his debt to Valjean was repaid, eternal sleep would await. But to use the time he needed to determine Cosette’s whereabouts for slumber, that would be a more grievous act of theft than what Valjean had ever committed.

 _Eternal sleep_. Ah, so he hadn’t entirely given up on the idea yet.

Javert buried his face into his hands, feeling weary despite the lack of will to sleep, and replayed the past day in his mind. The day had started with him as a prisoner. He had felt, rather than watched, the sun rise while bound inside the back room of the Corinthe bar, certain that this was his very last dawn. Light had brought color to tables and chairs, brown and grey with the occasional refracted red of bottled wine. He remembered feeling not fear, but a passing regret that, dying in plain clothes, he would never again be seen in blue.

If the rope that encircled his neck hadn’t dug so deeply into his throat, he would have laughed. One of the students had confiscated his gun, thinking to use it against the National Guards. Idiot school boys, the lot of them, who couldn’t tell the difference between a loaded gun and an empty one by weighing it against the palm. Javert would die blameless, and the gormless rebel would die confused.

Certainty in one’s beliefs had a way of creating courageous men out of hopeless circumstances. When the battle outside the Corinthe raged and Javert knew that each perishing student meant he was dragged closer to death’s door, he was gratified to have felt not fear but calmness—he was ready to die, the self-sure pride of a man fancying himself a righteous martyr.

If only he had died then! But Valjean appeared and, with all the grace of a wild boar, shattered his ordered belief in the universe. He had killed Javert by keeping him alive.

Javert shuddered. He remembered Valjean’s breath hot against his neck in the alleyway, quick and shallow, sending his body tingling. Javert had believed the quick breaths to be the convict’s excitement of finally ensuring his freedom, of taking his rightful vengeance. But he now knew Valjean to have been nervous; he had feared that they would be discovered. How was it that Jean Valjean did not hesitate to risk his own life for the continued existence of an enemy? Javert wondered what emotion would be on that face if he threw Valjean’s gift back at him. _Give me back my ropes and my pride! I don’t want your mercy._

Could he do it? Could he stand upon the Pont au Change again and let his body fall? He still believed it to be right, a life for a life, his own for Valjean’s. It would be just. Valjean would know it this time; he would be able to make the connection between his captor’s death and the lack of police coming after him to return him to the bagne. Would the convict be grateful? Or would he be angry, furious, wishing to revive Javert so he could kill him properly?

Bitterness rose from his stomach, bringing a foul taste to his mouth.

No, Valjean wouldn’t care. Once father and daughter reunited, Javert would no longer occupy even the smallest space in Valjean’s world. The mention of “Javert” would once again invoke fear and cause the convict to disappear into anonymity, and this time, he would make sure to never cross paths with Javert again.

It shouldn’t irk him to feel insignificant, to know his very name was repulsive to good and bad men alike. This was, after all, the life he had chosen, the life of a detective and a spy. But when he considered that even a convict on the run had created a family for himself—a daughter for whom he would give up everything—Javert realized that he was completely alone.

How many days would it take for anyone in the Prefecture to notice his absence? If the Seine dragged him to the river’s floor, his body never recovered, would he become no more than a passing thought to the few who would remember him: _Oh, Javert? The bloke lost his marbles at the barricades. Found some old man’s daughter and then disappeared_?

He had believed solitude to suit him, with no madame or children to distract his mind from police work. Until today, he’d been too blind to realize he was living as a sparrow who refused to take to the sky, believing that the hard work of pecking the earth for grains and worms was enough. He knew none of the wonder of fulfilling one’s created purpose through flight, and wouldn’t have known such exhilaration existed if he hadn’t lifted his head and glimpsed a humble man’s simple life. Jean Valjean did not lead a life of personal comfort. And yet here, Javert’s stomach was warm with bread and tea and his body cooling from sweat-drenched clothes. Here, though as bare as Javert’s apartment, the home screamed of love so tangible that he… _wants_. His heart was even now stirring with a yearning for something more.

Something other than death.

The realization struck him like lightning illuminating Paris’s darkest alley: it wasn’t cold oblivion that he wanted. He, the outcast of society carrying the wrong birth status, the wrong skin color, and the wrong profession, sought for the first time in his life to belong. What would it feel like to be important enough to someone who would pull him back from jumping to his death? Or to be known as the fallible man that he was and yet be encouraged to rise again? He’d been given stones as bread by receiving a shadow of what he now knew he wanted, through some cosmic comedy of errors that forced an unknowing enemy to play the part of his savior. But still he desired to experience closeness with another, perhaps through a friendship, something that he had never taken the effort to cultivate. And he wanted what Valjean had—contentment, that confounding, indestructible presence of peace.

These new desires—unfamiliar urges—were like his first taste of snuff decades ago: once he knew what rush of pleasure was possible, he would never cease to crave more of it.

Lifting his head, he stared ahead as if through the door and into the man inside. The Jean Valjean sleeping in the room was the richest man he knew, possessing not material but spiritual wealth. In fact, he realized, Valjean was more free and more at peace than he could ever be.

“How do you do it,” he asked, whispered to an imaginary Valjean in his mind. “How do you find peace?”

His eyes passed over the mantle above the fireplace, where two proud silver candlesticks stood. An odd display of wealth among a home that could be mistaken for a beggar’s, he mused, just as incongruous as the candlesticks’ owner himself. A memory of unreported theft, a rumor, came to mind. So it was true. He remembered M. Madeleine in black, mourning the Bishop of Digne’s death. _A servant in his house_ , Madeleine had said, and Javert now knew it was not a lie: he too considered himself a servant, a slave to Jean Valjean, if the man would accept his humble service.

He laughed. The sound reverberated in the emptiness of the home, an inappropriate mockery filling a space where there should be hearty laughs of a father and the giggles of a young girl. He _was_ Valjean’s servant once, a subordinate to M. Madeleine. And what did he do? He pushed a mayor off his path to redemption and trampled his hope underfoot.

No, he wasn’t even worthy to be a slave to Jean Valjean. He had always found the church’s teaching on mercy incomprehensible: If it was against God whom mankind had sinned, how then could humanity turn to the very same God and expect forgiveness?

How could he, Javert, turn to Valjean now, as a guest in his house and expect absolution—favor, even—from the man whom he had hunted?

Valjean was still wary around him, hesitant, possessing M. Madeleine’s kindness but carrying none of the mayor’s easy authority. He was like a hare whose ears twitched at Javert’s every approaching step, ready to sprint toward safety at any moment it felt its security threatened. He didn’t want Javert here.

Another fit of laughter overcame him, and he bent low, forehead against the table, gasping, wheezing. He had no place here, not in Valjean’s home nor anywhere else in God’s vast creation. But he couldn’t die, having been denied death over and over. He thought it comical somehow—to have a life to give but no one to take it! He laughed into the table, wondering why the object didn’t seem to share his amusement. The wood was rough against his nose; his own breath was foul.

He cackled and shrieked, his body seizing and shuddering. His stomach revolted, spasming air into hiccups. The still-functioning part of his brain warned that a porter lived somewhere in this building, the one who had drawn the rope to let Valjean in some hours ago, and that it would be unseemly for him to follow the noise into this apartment, to find a madman in hysterics sullying the good M. Fauchelevent’s kitchen table. But a larger part of him didn’t care, didn’t want to examine the stinging sensation rising in his eyes and the wet noise that now accompanied his every breath, or the way his hands had balled into fists by his sides, digging barricade-soiled nails into his palms.

He was alone. When there was nothing left for a man to do or to lose, he would inevitably find the world in which he was trapped to be immensely funny.

Javert remained thus, head bowed in faux prostration paying homage to Jean Valjean on the other side of the door—a realm of peace where saints and good men belonged—until the last of his hysterics left him. It may have been minutes; it felt like hours. He neck was burning and his spine had stiffened into stone. A groan escaped his lips, and he realized he had laughed his throat raw.

When he peeled his head from the table at long last, a forehead-shaped stain had formed on the table. It was wet.

He would have to explain the defacement of furniture to Valjean later, he thought to himself, but he didn’t want to think about that right now; he had no strength in him to feel embarrassed. Jean Valjean already knew the truth anyway: Javert was a pitiful, pathetic man. What good was he for?

Not good enough to follow man’s law, to deliver a good man to the bagne. And most certainly not good enough for God’s law, what with his inability to travel back in time to extend mercy to the same good man whose life he had destroyed.

Duty, he realized, was the only remaining reason for his existence.

_I will protect the citizens of_ _France_ _. I will uphold the law. I will enforce justice. I will perform my duty…_

A long time ago, on his one-way journey from Toulon to Paris, a young gendarme-to-be had once promised himself to never forsake duty.

Duty! His mind started with sudden clarity, as if seeing what had been put plainly before him for all this time. Had he forgotten his promises to himself? What was he doing here, overcome in turn with melancholy and hysteria, when there was duty to perform? He bristled at his unseemly display of weakness. No. Even as a failed inspector and a traitor to a good man, he hadn’t yet outlived his purpose.

_I will protect the citizens of_ _France_ _. I will uphold the law. I will enforce justice. I will perform my duty…_

The words gave him the strength again to turn his eyes toward the silver candlesticks, to soak in the calmness it seemed to offer him. They gleamed brighter the longer he stared. But of course… day was breaking. Javert imagined the sun outside the window, peeking out from behind thick clouds and casting away the morning dew. Daylight was for the steady of mind. Daylight was for the strong, and the strong needed no one.

He breathed in deeply, exhaled, and forced focus into both body and mind. _Duty_ , he repeated. _I will perform my duty_.

He must become Inspector Javert again.

He stood up in one smooth motion, ignoring the sudden dizziness that attacked his head, blinking away the final traces of _I want_ from his heart—weakness belonged in the darkness. He did not cast a second glance at the stain he left on the table. The matter was decided. Whether he would later go on to live or die, today, there was still one last duty required of him to perform. He owed Jean Valjean a daughter. It was time to set to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've concluded that Valjean is either a) really tired, b) used to sleeping through loud noises, c) has a really thick and sound-proof door, or d) is waken by the strange sounds Javert is making but at too much of a loss to know what to do except to pretend he's still sleeping :-p


	5. In Which the Investigation Commenced

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first step of investigating is to reconstruct a likely sequence of events. Javert is an excellent investigator.

When Valjean started awake, the sun was already descending from its noontime peak in the sky. Confusion muddied his sleep-hazed mind: had he been unwell? He rarely slept past daybreak, and never past noon. Why was it that no one had checked in on him? Surely Cosette or Toussaint –

Cosette. Barricades. Police station. The Seine. Javert.

“Did you find anything?” he asked as he burst through the door and into the sitting room. Belatedly, he realized he was still dressed in the crumpled workman’s clothing that he had put on the night before.

“Good day to you too,” Javert greeted into a slim volume he was reading, not bothering to look up at him. “Your portress brought us both food. Your bowl is on the table.”

The inspector was currently occupying a large portion of said table, with papers and several items he recognized to be Cosette’s strewn across the surface in no discernable pattern. On the end of the table that was closer to Valjean sat a full bowl of stew and a half-empty one. It appeared Javert hadn’t eaten much as well.

Knowing it was futile to ask how he could help, Valjean sat on the food side of the table and began spooning his stew. Everything tasted bland, not from Toussaint’s cooking (which was excellent) but from his body’s refusal to enjoy any luxury while the safety of Cosette remained unknown. He knew Javert wouldn’t start disclosing what he had found until he finished his food.  _Just like Toulon guards eyeing convicts during their mealtimes_ , an unwelcome memory rose to mind, and he forced the unbidden bitterness away. No, this was not the bagne, and Javert was not here as his jailer. This Javert was calm, patient, and lacked both suspicion and hostility. He was here to help, not to harm.

It irked him to admit it, but Javert’s insistence that he slept proved to be immensely necessary. His body was refreshed, and his mind—tormented with thoughts on Cosette notwithstanding—dared to cling onto desperate hope that she would be found. He glanced again at the table. Though not understanding the placement of objects, he knew Javert had worked through night and morning to uncover what information he could.

He should thank him, Valjean thought, but wasn’t sure how Javert would react. Seeing him sitting with one leg over the other, sunlight softening his normally harsh features, engrossed in a book that Valjean didn’t recognize as one of his own—had the inspector always carried his own book?—he thought he was seeing himself in his Rue Plumet home many months ago, lost in the blessedness of the Scriptures and in the happiness of leading a simple life with Cosette. Cosette hadn’t known to love another man then, and Valjean had, for some years, been foolish enough to believe that he was finally freed from the clutches of the law.

He frowned into his stew, the earlier calm of starting a new day dissipating. It appeared that he was wrong on both accounts. The sooner they would find Cosette, the sooner he would revert to chains. _The sooner I will lose her again_. But he forced away the selfish thought. So this was the extent of his sin. In becoming a devoted father to Cosette, he had become possessive, had disregarded even his beloved Cosette’s happiness in favor of his own. No. The Lord giveth and taketh away, and he was right to do so. If God deemed this to be the proper time to strip him of his one remaining fountain of joy, so that he may return—unhindered by attachments to the comfort of a life he had created for himself—back into the galleys, then who was he to question that this too wasn’t mercy, like a surgeon cutting away a patient’s own flesh to keep an infection from poisoning the rest of the limb?

_Forgive me, Lord._

Yes, he was ready to face his past. He had already received too much undeserved blessings, for this time, the prospect of returning to Toulon was accompanied by the promise that he would get to gaze upon Cosette’s sweet face again.

“How’s the book?” he asked, signifying that he had finished eating, finished brooding.

“I hate reading,” came the reply, “only when it is necessary. You will forgive me, I hope, for intruding into your daughter’s private writings. Her diary is most illuminating.”

“You… you are reading her  _diary_?”

“Every love-besotted word of it,” Javert acknowledged, tossing the book his way. Valjean did not take it. “You have raised her well. She is intelligent and literate, very caring too, I may add. She has written very fondly of her father and of this boy Marius. And,” he paused, his eyes finding Valjean’s, “of a certain garden inside a house on the Rue Plumet.”

“Yes, we moved away from there two days ago.” A thought struck clarity into his mind. “You mean to say, Inspector…”

“I have already visited the place this morning. Cosette was not there.”

“Ah. I had thought…” he began, but trailed off when he couldn’t place words to vague notions of unease in his mind. Javert waited, his eyes having acquired a spark of interest, curious as to what he would say. He gazed back, helpless. He was in a rare moment of agreement with the inspector. _Yes, Valjean, what were you going to say?_

And what had he thought, precisely? That Cosette would sit in the garden for hours, mourning the impending loss of new love? He shook his head. “This is my fault. I forced isolation upon her, always have. Did… do you think she left on her own accord? Did she step out of this apartment willingly?”

_Had she chosen love and freedom over her old, stubborn father?_

Javert gave him a peculiar look before he spoke, one that brought the words  _Montreuil-sur-Mer_  to mind. This was how the inspector used to hold himself in the presence of M. Madeleine, his inner suspicion constantly in conflict with outward respect—a Javert who never truly let his guard down, the wolf-hound’s instinct always present.

Javert was hesitating.

Valjean’s heart sank. The look alone was answer enough.

“She departed from here of her own volition, yes,” the inspector spoke, his words slow, the effort of one choosing just enough information to disclose. _Like someone who doesn’t wish to hurt my feelings_ , Valjean observed, and wondered when had his world turned upside down, with an enemy being delicate with him while his beloved daughter would choose to leave him without a care.

He waved a hand for Javert to continue before something as unthinkable as concern might color those eyes.

“There was no sign of forced entry into your home, and when I spoke with your landlady earlier, she hadn’t noticed anything amiss. Wait, let me finish –” Javert pointed to the mixture of items spread throughout the table. “I found these at the garden, at the house on Rue Plumet. They aren’t soiled by the effects of weather that occur throughout the day.”

There was a hand mirror, a handkerchief, a hair ribbon, and an oil lamp that had burnt out.

“You mean to say –”

“She was at the Rue Plumet, yes. Very recently.”

 _But no longer_.

“I don’t know where she has gone,” Javert answered the unspoken question, “but she has left us with plenty of clues. First, she had intended to spend at least several hours at your old house’s garden. That was why she brought the oil lamp with her, her departure was planned. Second, she had remained there longer than intended, waiting for someone, perhaps –”

“Marius?” Valjean guessed.

Javert nodded. “Very likely, yes.”

They were silent for several seconds. Then: “She never got the note.”

The inspector frowned. “Note?”

“Marius, the boy. He sent a note to Cosette from the barricades. It was… a sort of final farewell. I’d intercepted it.”

“And learning of his whereabouts, you went to the barricades at Rue de la Chanvrerie to fetch him.” Javert made a satisfied noise, as if concluding an unsolved case, having finally uncovered the reason behind Valjean’s presence at the barricades. Jean Valjean was suddenly reminded that he was seeking help from the most dedicated enforcer of law he had ever known, a dangerous man. He glanced at Javert out of the corner of his eyes. The inspector hadn’t noticed his drifting focus. He pointed to the handkerchief.

“This was wet when I found it. Your daughter waited for the boy until the oil lamp burnt out. She continued waiting until sunrise. When he did not appear, she wept.”

Javert’s words were dispassionate, the description of an inspector’s findings. But he may well have screamed them into Valjean’s ears and hurled them like punches into his stomach. His precious Cosette, weeping in sorrow! He looked from the handkerchief to Javert, then down at the expired lantern. If Javert was correct…

“How do you know she stayed at the Rue Plumet until dawn?” It couldn’t be, mustn’t. Because this would mean things could have turned out differently. As soon as he’d realized Cosette was gone, he could have gone back to their old home rather than to the streets and to the police station. Instead, he had wasted an entire night looking blindly at the wrong places, accomplishing nothing good and—the thought sent a tremor through his torso and limbs—perhaps losing Cosette forever.

Javert seemed to read his thoughts, and he wondered what he had let shown on his face. The way those grey eyes were observing him made him feel exposed, and so he passed a hand over his face, a poor attempt to wipe away the worry there. Still, Javert said nothing.

The inspector at Montreuil-sur-Mer would have latched onto this display of vulnerability and responded with lips pulling back to bare his teeth—the saintly Madeleine, admitting to an error! And a similar show of weakness at the barricades would have flared Javert’s flame of self-righteousness to such heights as to engulf them both, so that Valjean would have come face to face with the very embodiment of glee. But here, Javert remained still. Valjean raised his head. Oddly, the inspector looked stiff, uncomfortable.

“You were right to seek help from the police,” Javert said quietly, averting his eyes.

“But if you are correct, then Cosette was still in the garden when I realized she had disappeared.”

It took several seconds too long for Javert to confirm Valjean’s assertion. His body had gone tense. “Yes.”

“And so I am a fool!”

There was no smile that split Javert’s face like a grimace, nor the unknotting of his brows in satisfaction. Jean Valjean did not understand. Surely Javert had long dreamed of the day to hear these words coming from his lips? But the inspector still did not meet his eyes fully, and after a pause that once again felt too drawn out, said simply: “You couldn’t have known.”

A thought occurred to him.

“You wanted this, don’t you? Of course! If I had gone to the garden, I would not have seen you. Do you still think so lowly of me, Javert? My life is forfeit in your hands—I gave you my word. If I hadn’t met up with you last night, I would still be waiting for you.”

It was Javert’s utter lack of a ready retort that finally sent alarm through Valjean’s mind. This was not the Javert he knew—was he injured, after all, at the barricades? Where was the menacing flare of his nostrils, the hands swift to take out his irons to apprehend lawbreakers? The thought that perhaps they had both died at the barricades and returned as ghosts once again crossed Valjean’s mind. Not for the first time today, things seemed strange.

“Monsieur l’Inspecteur?”

“Do not call me that,” came yet another odd reply, barely above a whisper. “It is my life that is forfeit. If you had not…” Javert waved a hand. “Never mind. We are wasting time on what is not important.”

“But –”

“You asked me a question: how did I know that Cosette spent the entire night at the garden of your Rue Plumet house? Because of this –” Javert pointed to the ribbon that Valjean recognized as one of Cosette’s favorites for adorning her hair. “After her lantern burnt out, which would be about three in the morning, she had no fire to keep her warm. The nights of Paris are cold even during the summer, this I know full well.”

“I don’t understand –”

“Her hair. It is usually tied back, is it not?” Javert waited until he nodded. “But in the cold, she loosened her ribbon to let her hair fall. It kept her neck warm.”

Valjean opened his mouth, but the  _How?_  died in his throat at a quick glance of Javert’s own tied-back hair, graying at the temples with silver strands taking over the dark brown of his youth. The inspector was speaking from experience.

He said instead, “And Marius did not appear.”

“No, he did not, if that corpse you carried into the Marais was any indication.”

“And so –”

“Where did she go?” Javert asked, and he nodded. “That is the mystery. However, I believe Cosette did not leave in a hurry, whether her departure was of her own volition or coerced by another. She had enough time to check her appearance in the mirror before exiting the garden.”

Valjean looked from the items to Javert and couldn’t hold back a sense of admiration for the excellent inspector. From several seemingly unrelated items, Javert had reconstructed a likely sequence of what Cosette had done the night prior. Nothing escaped the inspector’s keen observation, and Valjean had never been so glad of it.

“Thank you, Javert,” he murmured. “I know I have thrust this on you. Please know that I am truly grateful. I will –”

“Don’t mention it,” Javert dismissed, his voice tight. This was not the refusal of a righteous man to receive gratitude from a criminal, this was… he could scarcely believe it, but when not fueled by the intensity he reserved only for examining clues and explaining his findings to him, Javert seemed almost melancholic. Knowing that further expressions of gratitude would only be rebuffed, he sent Javert a small smile instead, a gentle gesture of thanks that he hoped would not offend.

Toussaint entered the sitting room to take away the tray of food, leaving two cups of freshly brewed coffee on the table.

“You said you moved here two days ago?” Javert asked as if struck by a thought, not waiting for Toussaint to exit.

Having brought Toussaint along from his Rue Plumet house, Valjean was unconcerned. The topic at hand held no secret. “Two days ago, yes.”

“Then if a note is to arrive for you, it will not come here.”

“Do you mean –”

This time, Javert’s glare forced silence onto him. The accompanying shake of head closed his mouth.

“I am not implying that there would be any ransom note,” Javert clarified after they were again alone. “But surely you must realize, for a man as private as you, that it would take even the most astute observer weeks to realize you have departed from your former home.”

Javert was speaking from experience, he realized. Valjean thought he heard an undercurrent of brittleness buried beneath the formal tone, as if Javert was overcome with the bitterness of spending ten years hunting down a convict who kept eluding his grasp. But the sentiment wasn’t directed toward him. Or perhaps it wasn’t directed at anyone at all. Something deep within Javert was fraying, and while Valjean was beholding this confounding change by way of the softening of Javert’s sharp edges, he wasn’t sure if Javert was aware of it himself. The inspector was failing to retain an iron-clad grip over his emotions, and he didn’t seem to even know it.

He wondered how he had come to know to read Javert so well.

Valjean lifted a cup from the table and waited for Javert to do the same, to partake of their first sips of coffee together: the sharing of food and drinks between two old enemies; the mutual extension and acceptance of peace offerings.

They drank from their respective bitter cups in silence.

“So… now what?” Valjean eventually asked into his coffee, his hands wrapped around the mug.

Javert’s eyes met his. “Now we investigate, Monsieur Valjean.”

The coffee was hot and the steam breathed tendrils of warmth upon his face, but when he heard his true name spoken with respect by Javert for the first time, Jean Valjean shivered.


	6. In Which Two Gentlemen Visited a Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the investigation continues, past encounters and past selves resurface, in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me longer than expected to update -- this chapter just kept growing. But here it is at last!

“Let us go then!” Valjean turned toward the door, looking like one of those foolish revolutionaries ready to jump head-first into trouble. His every gesture, from a quick and futile attempt to smooth out the wrinkles on his clothes to the shrugging on of an outer coat that was far too warm for a summer day like this, spoke of a man so intent on doing what was on his mind that he gave no thought whatsoever to other matters.

Jean Valjean hadn’t changed, Javert realized, and the thought brought a past image of Valjean to mind, of someone with a shorn head and shoulders of enormous strength, his memory of Jean-le-Cric. Here was the same man who, as a Toulon convict, would scale a wall or dive into the sea at the slightest whisper of freedom. Always action before thought, intent on destroying any barrier that stood in the way. His ghost vision gentled into M. Madeleine—still the same man. As mayor, Valjean had forced into people’s homes to dispense charity. Javert had scoffed and glared, only to be rebuffed with feigned innocence, with Madeleine’s fake smile.

He was no longer certain if Valjean had been smiling when his knife cut through the ropes that bound him. There was nothing comical about that encounter. His lips twisted in bitterness at the irony: Jean Valjean, the barrier breaker, defied Paris’s very barricades to force life into him.

And now he was forcing himself onto Javert’s investigation.

He did not fault Valjean for being the fretting father. But he did want to snarl at the erstwhile M. Madeleine. A good investigator must not leave anything unexamined. He had lost count on how many times he’d repeated this to the mayor.

“Javert?”

“Have you learned nothing over the years, you sham of a mayor?” he snapped.

Startled, Valjean aborted his attempt to reach for his hat. He turned instead toward Javert, frowning in confusion.

“My failures are many, Inspector. Tell me, what have I neglected to do in Montreuil?”

 _Pay attention to my reports!_ Javert’s mind screamed.

He settled for crossing his arms.

Something lurched in his stomach then, at the sight of Jean Valjean looking so perplexed, like a fish pulled out of water and was now being told to fly. _What did I miss?_ the near-panicked plea in his eyes asked, begging for forgiveness of an unknown crime. The look twisted something painful deep inside him, and Javert sighed, his inner indignation receding in rapid degrees. Perhaps if their circumstances were flipped, Javert too would hasten toward the door.

“Valjean,” he began, a poor attempt at reassurance. The name rolled off his tongue like a well worn glove, familiar and fitting. Was that how he was starting to see this man now? A spark of anticipation stared back at him through gentle eyes, utterly guileless, open and waiting for Javert to explain his thoughts. Not a criminal, he realized. Not anymore.

He continued: “I have access to your living spaces, you will recall. In Cosette’s room, I found her diary. In the kitchen and later in the antechamber, I met and spoke with your portress. Outside, I met the porter. They both provided me with enough information to rule out several possibilities. I was led to Rue Plumet, No. 55, where I was able to examine a garden and retrieved invaluable evidences.”

He waited for Valjean to comprehend where this was leading. But while there was understanding in the content of what Javert delivered, Valjean had not yet caught onto the one glaring gap in the investigation.

“I have access to all your living spaces,” he prompted, “but I did not say I have been to every place that needs examination.”

“If you need entry into anywhere, you only need to ask –”

“So I should have asked a slumbering man?”

“Oh.” Valjean’s eyes widened, dawning with understanding. _Finally_. “Oh, you mean my bedchamber!”

Instead of turning toward the room, Valjean raised a hand to rub at his chin, scratching the white stubbles there as if having difficulty knowing what the next course of action should be. Javert bit back a harsh retort, remembering that he was not an incompetent police recruit, that Valjean would have no reason to think like a proper inspector.

Nevertheless, Javert’s patience was wearing thin.

Valjean looked as if he was trying to recall something. “I don’t think… no, Javert, Cosette never enters my room. I do not forbid her, but it seems to be against her sense of propriety that she has developed under the nuns.”

“You don’t _think_?” Were his arms not crossed in front of him, Javert may have yielded to the temptation of throwing both hands up in the air. “So because you cannot think it, she is therefore incapable of doing. Need I remind you that we are trying to find a young mademoiselle who left this place willingly and on her own? I very much doubt you thought that up.”

Valjean looked as if the words had slapped him in the face. Javert forced back a tinge of remorse. No, he had no time for this. He walked past Valjean and strode into the room, his boots clicking a steady rhythm that neither forbade nor invited Valjean to follow.

He was assaulted at once with the lingering smell of the sewer. Despite open windows, the stench of Valjean’s discarded clothes and his wash basin black with the grime that he managed to rub off of himself filled the modest bedchamber. Memories of the previous night flooded into his mind—bridge, Seine, water, the almost jump. _What am I doing here?_ a part of his mind protested, not for the first time since he had sent Valjean into this very room hours ago. _Duty_ , he reminded himself, _I must perform my duty_. But this voice was losing its resolve, weakening, and he wondered if he would be able to convince himself long enough to finish the present case.

It wasn’t Valjean, or even Cosette, who was running out of time. It was Javert who was nearing the expiration of his sanity.

He forced his attention back onto the objects in the bedchamber: bed, night stand, armoire, desk, and chair.

He found what he needed within seconds.

“See, nothing unusual. Cosette hasn’t come in,” a voice that was almost petulant said behind him.

Just as well. It would be unseemly for Valjean to see him roll his eyes.

“I thought you are a pious man, Saint Valjean.”

“I am hardly a saint.” There was a pause, an audible moment of confusion. “What does my faith have to do with anything?”

“According to your daughter, everything.” He pointed to the Bible sitting atop Valjean’s night table. “One of your treasured possessions, I assume?”

“I… yes?”

He stepped back, moving out of the way. “Well, look at it.”

He started counting the seconds as Valjean eyed his Bible with furrowed brows.

“Javert, something is indeed amiss. My Bible looks different.”

It took all of his self-control to hold back a snort. Five. 

“It… I don’t remember inserting anything into the pages.”

Eight. 

Valjean continued to stare dumbly.

Twelve. 

“It is a note.”

Seventeen. 

“A note! Cosette has left me a note!”

Twenty-two. He waved a hand. “Go on then, read it. See what it says.”

Valjean needed no further prompting. Quick with the movement of a much younger man in Javert’s memory, he pulled the note from the Bible and unfolded it in one excited motion.

If someone were to ask Javert later to describe what he was witnessing, the inspector would not have the words for it. As soon as Valjean put eyes to Cosette’s words, his entire countenance was aglow with joy. The lines between his brows vanished; in their place was the deepening of lines around his eyes, the beginning of a smile that was both entirely natural and subconscious. The fingers clutching the letter trembled, and Valjean’s intake of air became quicker, as if he could not contain his excitement and needed more breaths to keep himself from fainting. Even if the sky were to rain down fire and the walls crumbled around him, Valjean would not have noticed—so focused was he on the first sign of his daughter after nearly two days that no rapture or Armageddon would be able to draw his attention away from the letter.

Javert stood watch, keeping still. It was fitting to leave Valjean to relish this moment by himself. The inspector in Javert would have demanded to seize the letter as evidence. This new part of him, however, the man with a new heart who could no longer behold Valjean and see anything but a good man, waited, counting past a hundred, looking away when he realized tears had begun rolling down Valjean’s face.

“Cosette, she didn’t forget me,” Valjean said at length, tore his eyes away from the letter and turned toward Javert. His voice trembled with fragile hope, as if he did not deserve such a sign of care from Cosette.

Javert’s legs walked forward on their own accord. His arms, too, had settled by his sides as he approached Valjean. “What does the letter say?” he asked quietly.

Valjean thrust the letter into his view, inviting him to take the paper. Javert lifted it out of trembling fingers but kept his gaze on Valjean, waiting to hear the content from his lips.

“She apologizes for leaving. She says there is a promise she must keep.” Valjean added: “And she says she loves me!”

“She would be a fool not to love you,” Javert muttered under his breath, pretending to scan the letter. In a louder voice, he said, “This promise. I do believe it confirms my hypothesis that she went to the garden in Rue Plumet for a _rendez-vous_.”

“To meet Marius.”

“That would be the logical conclusion.”

The mention of Marius’s name brought pain like a dark cloud on Valjean’s face. If this was the sole expression Javert had to go by, he would not have believed that the young man for whom Valjean risked his very life to rescue was the same Marius.

But though it was Marius’s name that brought on the dark clouds, it was the continued thoughts of Cosette that broke Valjean’s spirit like torrential rain melting rocks and mud off a mountain.

“It is my fault,” Valjean whispered, bringing a hand to cover his eyes, his shoulders slumped into a body that appeared to be caving in onto itself. “I told Cosette we would move to England. I made the decision without considering how she would feel. I am not a good father. I haven’t _been_ a good father, to have failed to notice that Cosette has found love…”

“She did this behind your back,” Javert pointed out.

“She was afraid I would react badly, and she was right.”

“She disobeyed you!”

At this, Valjean unhid his face to glare at Javert. “She did no such thing! She was willing to accompany me to England even when I now know I have done her wrong. The thought to meet and get acquainted with Marius never crossed my mind, Javert. I hated the boy the moment I learned of his relations with Cosette.”

“Surely you exaggerate!” Javert could not envision Valjean, hair white and eyes kind, experiencing hatred. The man would not even treat him according to what he deserved.

But Valjean looked sheepish and lowered his head. “The thought of losing Cosette was terrifying to me,” he confessed quietly. “Until I had made the decision to go to the barricades, I was still wishing for the boy to perish there so I may keep Cosette to myself. Inspector, you have known me to be a thief and a fraud, but as you can see, my sins run much deeper.

“Cosette,” Valjean pushed on before Javert could point out the inaccuracies of his self-assessment. “Was she… did she resolve to leave home forever?”

Javert turned his eyes away, suddenly finding himself examining the Bible on the table. It looked bare without the inserted note. Where was the God who loved his favored child so much? Here was a book that promised love and peace and joy, and yet the task had fallen on him to speak sense into Valjean.

What could he say? _I don't know_ would be the truth, but an unsatisfactory one. _No_ would be a lie based on insufficient information. And he refused to contemplate the implication of answering in the affirmative. If this ungrateful child would choose her lover over her father, then in Javert’s mind she did not deserve to be welcomed home with open arms. But he would never say this to Valjean’s face.

As Javert hesitated, Valjean’s expression turned pained. “What does she need?” he said softly as if to himself. “She has everything and I would give her more! Oh God, what have I done? What did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Javert interjected. If his tone was too rough and lacking any pity, he didn’t care. “She believes she can only obtain that something she needs from Marius, her actions have said as much. This is not your fault. Remember: I have read her diary. She adores you. Do not for one instant believe that you have failed her in any way.”

Valjean did not believe him, he knew, but at least he ceased berating himself. Javert seized the opportunity to divert their focus back to the present, from reliving Cosette’s disappearance to finding her. “We have found the last piece of evidence. We now know where a note, if there is one, is to be sent to you. Come. We must go to Rue Plumet.”

When Valjean made no effort to move, he reached out a hand, hesitant, to tug at his elbow. Valjean did not flinch, he noticed. He also noticed that the arm was shaking slightly. But there was still strength in Valjean, and after a drawn out moment with both of them still like statues, Javert realized it was he who was clutching on for support instead. This thought rushed the roar of the Seine into his inner ear and his heart beat successively faster, the world falling around him, with Valjean as his only anchor. _The world falling_. Like it would have been had he jumped, if there had been no Jean Valjean to stop him.

 _Duty_ , something in him whispered, but that something was being overcome, drowning.

“Come,” he repeated, hoarsely, fighting against himself to focus on the present matter. “We must return to Rue Plumet.”

He was running out of time. He wondered if Valjean would be able to find Cosette on his own, or perhaps the Prefecture would be willing to assist M. Fauchelevent when he would no longer be alive to help.

But it was Valjean who once again bought him time, force-feeding him life. When Valjean turned and directed a small smile at him, Javert gasped, the gush of life breathing air into his drowning soul, the receding of crushing torrents.

“You are right, Inspector. I am ready. Let us go.”

They departed.

-

“Ah, I have always wondered how you disappeared from my perfect trap,” Javert said as they walked toward the house on Rue Plumet. To unknowing passersby, they must appear no different from two gentlemen long acquainted with each other, taking a stroll in the warmth of early June.

Javert barked a laugh, mirthless and bitter. “Scaling a wall into a convent. That possibility had never crossed my mind.”

Jean Valjean had spent the past half an hour relaying his life since Montreuil-sur-Mer. It did not escape his attention that Javert was determined to lift him out of his earlier melancholy. He did not want to dwell on the strangeness that Javert, of all people, was exerting effort to calm the turmoil of his mind, for the inspector looked pained at having to do so, his very soul seemed caught in a struggle against giving in and marching him straight into a police station.

Valjean had at first obliged to answer Javert’s inquiries to fill in the tense silence. But as he began describing his stay at the convent and later how he and Cosette had come to start a new life at the Rue Plumet, his words flowed as if of their own will, having found an audience at last to reveal a life that had been lived in secret.

To his surprise, Javert listened with interest. His eyes sparked with emotion ranging from curiosity to incredulity, and his face was unguarded in a rare state of openness that revealed the Inspector’s sharp mind working pieces of the puzzle together, forming a complete tale of the past nine years of his life. Valjean, too, felt no need to put up any mask: this was his full confession to the Law. Never in his decades of imagining this moment did he believe it would be almost enjoyable, like the gentle sun that was even now bathing him in the warmth of the summer day, shining upon him not to expose imperfections but to chase away the ghosts of his past.

Javert, he realized with a shudder, was the only one who knew almost everything about him and for so long. If they were not in public, Valjean could roll back the cuffs of his shirtsleeves to welcome the summer air on his skin, and he would not need to explain the markings that would be revealed. Nor did either of them have to describe the peculiarities of Mme. Prudhomme before sharing a groan at the memory of her tendency to let her cats wander up into trees and then wail loudly until her beloved pets could be rescued by Montreuil-sur-Mer’s already overtaxed police force. Lost in the recounting of both good and bad times of the past, Valjean caught a small but genuine smile directed his way. He didn’t think Javert was aware of it. He certainly hoped Javert was unaware of his response, of the hitching of his breath and of his ears growing warm in a way that he knew had nothing to do with the summer heat.

He wondered what sort of rapport could have developed between them if things were different, if they were not guard and convict, inspector and criminal.

A stray thought rose to his mind: when they would finally find Cosette (for she would be found), what would she think of Javert?

“She doesn’t know,” he blurted out.

Javert gave him an odd look.

“My past, what I was. I – she’s everything to me, I can’t tell her.”

He trained his eyes toward somewhere down the path, ignoring the way his heart was pounding as if threatening to break free of his ribcage. _Dread_ , the word came to mind in his attempt to approximate what he was feeling—the absolute terror of having Cosette’s goodwill toward him shattered.

He was in a busy street in broad daylight, and yet he suddenly felt alone and plunged into darkness, the world fading away around him. But he kept walking, because Javert was still walking beside him, was still looking at him with unreadable eyes. He allowed heavy gaze to pin him down like a guard assessing a convict’s exposed back, considering where best to land the whip. But this gaze wasn’t cruel. It penetrated into Valjean’s deepest secrets but was ready to offer balm instead of lashes. Slowly, by focusing on Javert’s presence next to him, Valjean rejoined Paris’s streets and citizens. Crowds of people were going on with their lives as if yesterday had never happened, save for the debris on the ground and gendarmes running here and there, barking an occasional order. Sounds of people bustling about once again filled his ears.

“You should tell her, Monsieur Fauchelevent,” Javert replied as a Parisian walking in the opposite direction squeezed through the narrow gap between them.

Valjean shook his head. This was not a question of should or should not. He simply  _couldn’t_.

And at the thought, he realized there was one other request he needed to make of Javert.

“Javert… Inspector,” he said, quietly, barely above a whisper. “Would you take me away in private, when the time comes? I do not ask it to have my dignity preserved, I am ready to endure shame and humiliation. But not in front of Cosette, please, I beg you. To horrify her so… I will never forgive myself.”

He turned his head toward Javert when no reply came. Javert’s mouth was pressed thin; the tension around his eyes seemed to etch the lines there deeper. Valjean sighed, regret flooding his heart for making such an impertinent request of the inspector. Criminals did not get to define the terms of their punishment. To Javert, Jean Valjean would always be a criminal, their present lack of animosity notwithstanding. He had overstepped his bounds.

Before he could apologize, however, Javert spoke: “The streets are crowded. Let us not speak any more of this in public.”

It was a sensible remark. Valjean nodded, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

-

“What are we looking for?” Valjean asked when they entered the garden of his erstwhile home. Even under less-than-pleasant circumstances, Javert noted that Valjean looked around the place like a traveler coming home from a long journey, full of longing for the past.

 _We moved away two days ago_ , Valjean had said, placing the blame on those who had uncovered the connection between 55 Rue Plumet and the name Fauchelevent. But Javert knew the true reason: Valjean was fleeing from him. He wondered what peace he had shattered between the old man and his daughter over the years, how many times they had moved. From the look of Valjean, his sudden display of nostalgia wasn't over a house and a garden he’d left two days ago; he was bidding farewell to a foregone time of happiness, readying himself for the inevitability of the bagne.

He wondered when he should tell Valjean that he would never again wear a galley slave’s chains. He wondered also how Valjean would react to the offer to exchange a life for a life, at the close of the present case, when they would both realize that more was needed of him to repay decades of debt.

Valjean would be horrified, he concluded. Perhaps it was best for him to quietly slip away after all of this.

He felt an inexplicable need to fill in the silence. He cleared his throat.

“When I visited this morning, I only focused on uncovering clues about Cosette. Now that I know she is a tenacious young lady, I am certain that she would not have left this place unless there was a reason to. Someone must have been here to deliver a message, to bring her news about Marius. We must search for signs of that.”

Javert trailed his eyes after Valjean, who didn’t seem to hear a word he’d said. Valjean was walking toward a garden shed. He hesitated. Something in Valjean’s posture bade him to go no further, to let the old man relive his memory. When Valjean put a hand to the door and opened it as if a rich man coming home to his mansion, Javert understood: Jean Valjean had spent more nights living in this shed than inside the comfort of the house.

It wasn’t difficult to deduce why: Valjean did this for Cosette’s safety, to disassociate himself from the girl as much as possible, to preserve a veneer of respectability for a whore’s daughter lest he was discovered and taken away. He did this out of love.

The unfamiliar sensation of something prickling at his conscience overwhelmed his senses. There was no one except himself in all of Paris who still knew of Jean Valjean’s past. The former convict did this, and doubtless resorted to other measures to conceal his identity, all to hide from him.

He was deep in self-recrimination when, turning from looking out of the garden toward the shed, a flash of white caught his eye. Was that a piece of paper lodged between the bars of the metal gate? He was certain it wasn’t there several hours ago. “Valjean!” he called as he approached the gate. It was indeed a piece of paper, a written note of some sort, and he snatched it from between the bars and pocketed it. He examined the metal gate. In most of the ledges aside from the one on which the note was placed, the bars were covered in dust or mossy slime, or a combination of both. This ledge was clean. It had been used as a place to send and receive messages for some time.

“Valjean, a note has arrived!” he said as he hastened to the shed. He did not allow himself to yield to excitement or apprehension, for there was rarely any benefit in jumping to a premature conclusion. The note could be anything and from anyone. As he neared the shed, he could feel Valjean’s frantic anticipation calling out to him from the other side of the door. Well, he thought, that made two of them.

Javert found himself inside an utterly bare space save for a straw mattress and a work surface covered with a multitude of gardening tools. The sight jarred him away from all thoughts about the note. There was no fireplace in here, not one trace of anything that would provide comfort. He wondered if this was Valjean’s way of condemning himself to a life of the bagne outside of Toulon. Even the most humble servant’s quarters were more livable than this.

“Javert?” Valjean’s voice brought his mind back to the present.

He extended a hand. “I found this, lodged at the gate. It wasn’t there when I visited earlier.”

“Can it be –”

“No guesses, Valjean. Let the note be its own witness. Here –” he unfolded the paper, lifting it to eye level so both of them could read together. He saw Valjean pushing forward in resolve; he found himself doing the same.

Javert expected the note to be either addressed to or written by anyone from Cosette to Marius, or even Marius’s family or his associates, or—heaven forbid, an abductor’s ransom note—but not this:

_My Dearest Marius,_

_If you are reading this, it means I am dead and my sister has kept her word to deliver my letter to you. Gavroche, that little boy, will you take care of him? He is my brother. Word will never capture how I feel toward you. But I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. Oh and Mademoiselle Cosette, I know you must be surprised to find a letter in your usual place written by someone else. I’m sorry, I know of no other way to get this message to Marius._

_With all my heart, good bye._

_Éponine_

Éponine? “This is the girl at the barricades, the one pretending to be one of the students.” He considered the letter further. “She wrote this before the revolt began, or rather, convinced someone to do it for her. The girl cannot read or write.”

Realization dawned in Valjean’s eyes. He too had remembered the face that he now knew bore this name. “Do you mean that Cosette has gone with this Éponine’s sister?”

“No, the timing would be inconsistent. Cosette was already gone from here when I visited in the morning. There was no note then. This message came in the past two hours.”

“But what if –”

“No, Valjean. This is peculiar but unrelated. As I have said, the letter was arranged prior to any shot was fired from the barricades and long before Cosette disappeared from here.” He held up the letter for a closer inspection, fingers tapping at the edge of the paper. Though unrelated to the disappearance, Éponine’s sister was worth interrogating… “But this sister can prove useful to us still.”

“So what do we do?”

He almost regretted his words, for the way it ignited a spark of hope in Valjean’s eyes. He didn’t want to have to extinguish it later if the pursuit after the girl proved futile. But it was the best option they had at the moment.

“There are two people who know about Cosette and Marius’s relations –” He glanced at Valjean; the old man had tensed at his choice of word. He ignored the parental reflex. “– one is Marius, who is quite incapacitated at the moment. The other would be this Éponine’s sister. I believe you know her?”

Valjean shook his head.

“Ah, so you haven’t made the connection yet. Éponine and Gavroche have several more siblings, one of which is about the same age as Éponine, a younger sister named Azelma. I am well acquainted with this family because of their parents’ notoriety. I believe,” he said, holding Valjean’s gaze, “you are familiar with the name Thénardier?”

-

Thénardier! The word rang loudly in Valjean’s ears, like prison cannons that screamed to the world of Prisoner 24601’s escape each time he broke out of Toulon—the sound of extinguished hope. The scoundrel had once tried to extort his entire fortune from him. Would he now demand the safety—or God forbid, the very life—of Cosette? The thought shook his mind like a tree split open by lightning. His body, too, trembled, for he saw Javert bend down to pick up a fallen tool, shaken off the table from his shudder.

“We don’t know yet if Azelma has made the connection between Marius and Cosette, and from Cosette to you,” Javert’s voice drifted in from what sounded like far away. “I am certain that Éponine did not divulge anything, given her apparent fondness for Marius. And as I have deduced, Cosette and Azelma did not cross paths. The timing we were able to establish disproves that. There is nothing yet that ties Cosette to Thénardier the elder.”

M. Madeleine knew Javert to be a man of flawless deductions. Even Jean Valjean the fugitive would confess to the inspector’s sensibility. But M. Fauchelevent, father of Cosette, had no such faith. Until Cosette was back in his arms and he could touch a finger to her cheek, he would not believe.

A hand rested on his shoulder. The gesture was uncertain, but no less determined. “Valjean?”

A day ago, this hand would have dragged him back to hell. No, if he were to believe in the absurdity of his present truce with Javert, then he must trust in the man’s abilities as well. “Forgive me, Inspector. I – I did not have a good history with Thénardier, not since the day when I took Cosette away from their despicable inn in Montfermeil.”

“Understood. Yet I would insist again that there is no cause for alarm. This Azelma was honoring her sister’s request. She has not been trailing you or Cosette, or she would have known that you no longer live here.”

It was always cold logic for the inspector, and Valjean desperately clung on, grasping at the voice of reason amid his fears and anxiousness. He had never known Javert to be wrong yet.

“Thank you,” he said as he placed a hand over Javert’s. It tensed, but did not pull away. Valjean smiled. “Age and concern have addled my mind. I would not have been able to… Javert, I cannot thank you enough.”

He released his hand over Javert’s. With wonder, he noted that Javert did not immediately pull away, but gave his shoulder a final, reassuring squeeze before retreating.

“So we go find Azelma, then?”

“No, we wait for her to come to us.”

Valjean turned to the inspector. “How?”

Javert took from his pocket the letter that Cosette had written for him. The color of the paper was whiter than Éponine’s, its stock heavier. “We pretend this is Marius’s response and wait outside the gate. She will approach when she believes a reply has been left for her. We will then have a potential witness to question.”


	7. In Which Javert Was Derailing All This Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An encounter with Azelma Thénardier turned into a heart-to-heart that neither man expected.

“Mademoiselle, a word please.”

Startled, Azelma almost screamed. Almost, because she was sensible enough to realize that no help would come if she did, and when she turned around to see the inspector and the white-haired gentleman whom she recognized as Cosette’s father standing behind her, blocking her way of escape, she knew no amount of screaming would get her out of this.

“What do you want?” she said instead, and would be proud of the lack of trembling in her voice if she wasn’t so frightened inside. Really, what _did_ they want? The only thing she could think of was that one of them had intercepted the note. But she’d read it earlier. There was nothing offensive in there. At least she did not believe there to be, hearing Éponine’s last words from the dispassionate voice of someone kind enough to read the note to her.

“Information,” the inspector said, at the same time Cosette’s father—Monsieur Fauchelevent, now she remembered his name—smiled and uttered some nonsense about needing her help.

She crossed her arms. “I’m still outside of your property, Monsieur Fauchelevent. I am not trespassing.”

“No, you’re not,” the old man agreed, “nor will I want to lay such an accusation on my guest. Come, let us go inside. The afternoon sun is hot.”

The inspector and Fauchelevent exchanged a glance as if in silent communication. The metal gate grated open at the same time Azelma thought she heard something like “I didn’t relinquish this place entirely” from one of them, the words sounding like a shrug, but she didn’t give them too much thought.

There wasn’t much choice but to walk toward the house, so she did so with her head held high and her arms still crossed in front of her. Looking defiant was the easy part. Her mind, on the other hand, was racing. She knew Inspector Javert well—everybody did. He never let any misdeed go unpunished. And despite her attempt to live as an honest citizen since that shameful episode at the Gorbeau House, she knew her ties with her parents and with ’Ponine and Gavroche—revolutionaries!—would taint her for the rest of her days. But what could she say? That she no longer saw her father regularly? That to him and his gang, she was as good as dead? That if she had truly died, they would mourn for her as little as they did for her two siblings who died yesterday, which is to say, not at all?

Her knees trembled as she walked up the stairs, and she cursed her weakness, for feeling at once strumming with energy and exhausted. She couldn’t refuse Fauchelevent’s offer of a seat on the most comfortable looking couch in the simple sitting room, nor did she push the steaming cup of tea away when it was placed into her hands. All this time, the inspector said nothing, and Azelma loathed that unnerving feeling whenever eyes were watching her too closely. It made her feel like a mouse with its back against the corner and nowhere to go, granted continued existence only because the cat was taking time to ponder its next move.

Fauchelevent continued to fuss about, so much so that after several minutes, Azelma wasn’t sure which of them the inspector was annoyed at more. She turned to look at the white-haired man. She was supposed to remember him. Her father had spoken much about the fraud who stole away their adopted sister, Cosette. They had crossed paths again some years later, at the Gorbeau house, but Azelma was only tasked with something minor then and never did enter the place where “Monsieur LeBlanc” had been captured. All in all, she did not think Fauchelevent would bear any ill will against her. As long as he was here to keep the inspector at bay, Azelma dared to hope that this encounter would not end in her being cuffed and deported to the Madelonettes.

It was when Fauchelevent bent down to start a fire—in the middle of the summer!—that Inspector Javert finally lost his patience. “Oh, for – come over here, you imbecile! We haven’t got all day.”

The yelling was effective on Fauchelevent, whose entire body tensed at the command like he was a schoolboy being scolded. The two men behaved very strangely around each other, Azelma noted. They were clearly working on something together—maybe a case?—but their interactions were uneasy, overly deferential until one of them would snap at the other. She wondered if it was possible to get them to have a row. If she could get Fauchelevent to disagree with the inspector, she may be able to avoid being arrested yet.

Leaving the fireplace alone, Fauchelevent started to walk toward them. He looked weary, as if it was painful to exert energy for physical movements. He limped; his right foot dragged whenever he took a step. Just like… no, it couldn’t be. M. Fauchelevent was a gentleman, not like his father’s lackeys. The inspector noticed it too. Azelma noted how his face seemed to darken, his lips pressed thin into a line like he was trying very hard not to think about what he saw.

She averted her eyes, taking a sip of her tea.

Once they were all seated, it was Fauchelevent who unexpectedly did the talking. “Mademoiselle, I apologize for any fright we may have caused you. We merely want to learn from you what you may know about Monsieur Marius’s interactions with a, ah, lady friend of his.”

She looked up sharply, then immediately regretted such an open display of shock. Father once said it made her look guilty. _You make a bad criminal_ , he had said, as if being a good criminal was a positive thing.

She allowed Fauchelevent’s words to repeat in her mind. So this was about Marius and Éponine… how was it that the old man knew about their relationship? It must be through Cosette. Perhaps they had all become friends during those days leading up to the revolution. She knew Éponine and Marius had been friendly for some time, but it wasn’t until recently when she started noticing the exchange of letters between Marius and Cosette that she realized their circle of friends was much larger. She had always assumed that Éponine had dictated at least some of the letters, just as she had done so with her last one, the one she asked Azelma to deliver. She may not be able to read and write, but that did not mean she didn’t use written communication, or that ’Ponine would never want to learn.

_Too late now…_

It still didn’t make sense that Fauchelevent and the inspector would want to speak with _her_ about Marius though. Couldn’t they ask Cosette directly? But she knew they wouldn’t let her go until she gave them what they wanted.

“A lady friend, you say? Well, she’s dead,” Azelma spat.

The old man flinched, then looked utterly horrified. “What do you mean – it cannot be!”

“She meant Éponine, her sister,” the inspector interjected.

Something inside her snapped, emotions that had been drawn taut by grief and lack of sleep, and she felt her anger flare. “Of course I’m talking about my sister!” She glared at Fauchelevent, who suddenly seemed relieved. “Wait, who did you think I was talking about? Do I look like I’m someone with a lot of friends? My sister was all I had, and now she’s dead!”

 _Dead_. She knew this—how could she not? But she hadn’t spoken it aloud until now. Saying it made it real, and now she couldn’t take it back. It started from somewhere deep inside, that feeling like someone had stuck a knife into the core of her being and then twisted it. It invaded her stomach and into her lungs, then continued in the form of a sob that turned into a wail, every sound torn from her like someone was ripping out her heart.

It was only two days ago when she had last seen Éponine. Somewhere in her mind, the part that refused to accept the events of the past day, she half-expected Éponine would walk through the underbelly of Paris to find her again, teasing her about doing honest work when laboring away for an entire day sometimes wouldn’t bring in half as much as begging on the streets. She would pretend to be angry, and Éponine would sigh and roll her eyes, and then they would roam the streets of Paris together.

And Gavroche, their precocious, independent brother. He was the only one old enough to take to the streets of Paris like a king and yet remain unsullied by the law’s judgment, never arrested or jailed and always so happy to simply be free. Heaven must be blind to have extinguished the life of someone so exuberant, so  _alive_. Gavroche dreamed of a better tomorrow just like those students did, and was that so wrong, so deserving of death? She remembered the last time they talked. She was making some excuses about needing to rest and prepare for work tomorrow. He had mock-laughed at her. She still remembered his too-long hair whipping around his face as he turned and told her  _To the elephant I go!_ … and that was it, their last conversation: brief, trivial, unimportant.

“Tell us about your sister,” the inspector said in a stern voice, and Azelma glared through her tears.

“What? Are you going to mourn for her too? Or go find her body and arrest her for breaking the law, for being a _revolutionary_? Éponine didn’t belong to you or the law even when she was alive. You have no right to disrespect her now.”

She spat, saliva and tea and choked back tears. She always had good aim. It landed on the inspector’s left boot.

“Why, you insolent –”

“Javert!”

The inspector listened to Fauchelevent, Azelma noticed, like he actually respected the old man. He also allowed him to bend down to clean his boot with a handkerchief. For that, she felt bad. She wasn’t trying to degrade Fauchelevent.

She put on her most defiant posture, tilted head and eyes leering down her nose. It didn’t look half as fearsome with her hands wrapped around a teacup, but she wasn’t going to make Fauchelevent clean up after her too.

“If you’re going to arrest me, then do so already. I haven’t broken any law, _Inspector_ , but you never listen to reason when it comes to us little people.” She made a sound that could either be laughter or a sob, she didn’t know which. Maybe it was both. “Do you know why the students rose up against people like you? It’s because everything from the government to whatever this sham of the law that you always force on us are designed to keep us down, keep us miserable. Have you ever thought about what happens to those you arrested? How will their families be fed? How will their children grow up, or will they grow up at all? Who will be there to help when all the money’s gone and favors exhausted? And what happens after someone is released from jail? Their lives are already ruined—what’s the point of abiding by the law any more?”

She was in real, proper trouble, she knew, but this had to be said, both for the sake of her siblings and for the memory of their friends. She didn’t care which would come first, the inspector’s furious growl or cuffs falling onto her hands. She was alone now in this world. It didn’t matter where she would go.

But the inspector had acquired a strange look on his face and Fauchelevent was looking away from both of them, shifting in place in discomfort. She thought she saw the gentleman’s hands pulling at his shirt, unconsciously tugging his already long sleeves to cover half his hands. If she didn’t know better, that this man was wealthy and had the means to this large house and could afford a private education for his daughter, she would have believed this was a convict’s reflex, like his father’s unsavory associates disappearing for years at a time only to reappear with scars on their wrists and whip marks on their backs.

Azelma turned from one man to the other. The silence that had formed was suffocating.

“What? Nothing to say? Then no need to get up. I will see myself out.”

“Mademoiselle Azelma, please,” Fauchelevent said, pleaded. His eyes had welled up, and more effectively than anything, it pinned her to the armchair, paralyzing her. “Aside from your sister and Marius, do you know of a girl about your age, Cosette?”

“What about her?” she asked, suspicious. For wasn’t it a father’s task to see to the care and comfort of his daughter? Good fathers, that is. She never considered her own old man “good,” and often not even “father.” But her father and his gang never failed to know where to find her whenever they needed a lookout or a decoy. She was never free from their grasp. But she liked to pretend she would no longer find strange men blocking her way in the middle of the street and tossing her an assignment along with threats for failure to perform as told.

She glanced at the inspector, then back again at Fauchelevent. Nothing was making sense.

“If you know of her whereabouts, Mademoiselle, I would be forever grateful.”

The old man was genuine, this she could determine from his gentle eyes and earnest face. But still… “What is it to me, your daughter? Why should I help you?”

“Your sister and Cosette,” Fauchelevent said, “they may have been acquainted. For you see, my daughter has an… amorous rapport with Marius, and Éponine was his friend.”

Amorous?

“You lie!” she shouted. “Marius doesn’t like _her_. It was ’Ponine who was together with him!”

Something like relief crossed Fauchelevent’s face, soon followed by confusion, before settling on something like pity.

Oh God…

She hated pity.

“Liar! Marius loves Éponine! He’s known her for _years_!”

Somewhere to her side, a stern voice threatened her to calm down or beware of the consequences. Just like her father’s men. She curled her lips. The inspector would never be able to cow her into submission, and the old man would not break her with his lies. Éponine and Marius made a love story, a tragic one. He fought for a better tomorrow for her and she died for him. It had to be. Or else…

She refused to think that Éponine had died in vain.

But even with her head so fiercely denying this new possibility that she had never considered before, Azelma knew in her heart that Fauchelevent was telling the truth. For why the constant exchange of letters between Marius and Cosette, if not for their affections toward each other? ’Ponine had no need to send Marius a written note, she knew deep inside, for she could find him easily at any street in Paris and simply walk up to him and link a friendly arm through his.

And why would someone die so willingly for love, if not for the prospect that her love would not be returned and the future would be too painful to bear?

Azelma heard something crash onto the floor. Wetness splashed against her ankles. Her hands were now empty.

“– told you this was a bad idea.”

“She is our best lead yet –”

“But look at her! Have you no heart?”

“Do I even need to answer that?”

Everything around her felt unreal, like she was trapped inside a body that wasn’t really hers. Azelma was vaguely aware that she was not alone, that there were two men who all but forced her into this house to ask her questions about Éponine. She no longer cared.

She became aware of a gentle hand on her shoulder—it may have been there for some time, she couldn’t tell—a rare gesture of kindness that anchored her through her final sobs. She was weak. In front of the merciless inspector no less! But the squeezing of the hand gave her the comfort that she didn’t know she needed, and she leaned into the touch until the last thought she remembered having was how safe it felt to be held in someone’s arms.

-

Valjean held Azelma as she drifted off to sleep, having exhausted herself from crying. Javert looked on, uncharacteristically silent.

“When Cosette woke from her nightmares, I used to hold her like this,” Valjean explained.

Javert grunted something unintelligible in reply.

“Inspector, I have a request.”

Javert crossed his arms and waited.

“Mademoiselle Azelma, when she wakes, please, just let her be.”

Here it was again, Jean Valjean pleading for another life.  He thought back to a similar request, just a day ago, the convict begging for the life of a revolutionary, an enemy of the State. Before that, it was M. Madeleine pleading by the bedside of a dying woman, groveling on behalf of a whore and her daughter. None of the wretched souls that Valjean had pled for was worthy of his favor. He didn’t see much worth in the sleeping girl right now. But once upon a time, he had thought the same about Valjean, and the convict proved to be a good man. Perhaps it was he who had been wrong all along.

Javert looked at the girl, old beyond her years even when sleep had smoothed out her frown and downturned lips. She was wearing a simple dress that was only mildly better than tattered rags. But even in such destitute, Javert recognized her clothing for what it was—the clothes of a woman who would spend the rest of the day cleaning other people’s houses. She had stopped by the garden only to deliver and retrieve messages, likely in between working at different bourgeois’ homes. Azelma Thénardier was a worker.

Cosette’s mother had been a worker once. Jean-le-Cric was well known for his strength as a worker, and after his release, Valjean continued to work, first as Mayor and then as gardener. Even the Pontmercy boy had a profession, though Javert very much doubted he would ever deign to employ such a ninny for legal services. Montreuil and Paris were filled with people willing to work, to pursue honest lives.

He saw the truth for what it was for the first time: most people sought to labor, to build; to make something out of their miserable lives. He, on the other hand, had spent years destroying lives.

“Inspector?”

He cast one more look at the girl. “Very well.”

The surprise in Valjean’s eyes was thanks enough, the smile sent his way, undeserved. When Valjean carried the girl into Cosette’s former bedroom, he allowed his eyes to follow the strong back, unbowed with age, and wondered if it wasn’t already too late for him to repay his debt to this man who spent his life lifting souls out of the gutter, out from under broken carts, and up from turbulent waters.

He heard the crashing waves of the Seine in his mind’s ears. Not for the first time since he jumped down from the parapet, Javert wondered if his service to Valjean would have been better if he were dead.

-

For the remaining hours of the afternoon, Jean Valjean and Javert settled in their respective chairs in the sitting room, waiting for Azelma to wake. The silence between them was tense, Valjean having exhausted his urging for Javert to do something, _anything_ , while the girl slept, and Javert having used up all of his patience in explaining that cases must be solved by ruling out trails one at a time, or else an investigator would not know from where a new lead had emerged and would only confuse the evidences further. Valjean did not accept Javert’s reasoning; Javert refused to let a convict, former or not, to take over his case. _Go and walk every single street of_ _Paris_ _then, why don’t you? Better yet, go out and break some laws, attract a criminal’s attention and have him recommend you to Cosette’s abductor!_

He had never found silence to be so deafening.

When shock turned into pain and then gave way to fury on that normally gentle face, Javert knew he had overstepped. _“Valjean, I –” “Do you still see me as a lawbreaker, Javert?” “I have misspoken –” “Have I not already said my life is forfeit in your hands?” “Monsieur, I apologize –” “And so I must now go break the law! Go outside and commit a crime! Do you not think me capable of doing the same here?”_ Valjean was gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that his knuckles had turned white. His eyes flashed with unadulterated rage. And Javert, who knew nothing of making amends or speaking the right words to diffuse anger, could do nothing but stiffen, like a marked deer pointed at by a hunter’s rifle, the instinct telling him to either strike or run having been rendered toothless by cold logic that he had never been able to out-power Jean Valjean.

They stared, hunter and prey, while a young girl slumbered away in the next room. Javert wondered how was it that the armrests of Valjean’s chair were still intact. He wondered why those hands weren’t on him even now, striking or choking. He wondered why he was still alive.

If Valjean’s anger receded by degrees, it was a slow retreat, one that was done not out of mercy for Javert but of some obligation under a higher power that seemed to be restraining those hands. When enough of the familiar Jean Valjean seeped back into those eyes, Javert slowly blinked once, looking down, a conscious act of surrender. Valjean’s lips thinned even more, but then came the nod. Surrender accepted.

Silence stretched into averted eyes, and now they sat, each one resolutely not looking at the other. Their sins against each other, all three decades of fear and hatred, hung heavily in the air. The afternoon sun started descending into the garden gate; their shadows lengthened.

When the sun dipped below the window and the air began to cool, Valjean breathed out loudly. “It appears the afternoon is forfeit, after all.” His tone was even, distant like a Mayor making an observation. It was not an apology.

“I will redouble my efforts tomorrow,” Javert promised.

The silence that followed was more companionable—if one could call their lack of animosity thus—and in the fading daylight, the lines on Valjean’s face seemed deeper, more pronounced. His brows were furrowed and his lips downturned, outward displays of a father’s distress over the unknown fate of his daughter. The hands that moments ago gripped the arms of his chair with such strength were now trembling, and Valjean seemed to shrivel before Javert’s eyes, consumed by a grief that no loving parent of a missing child had been able to withstand in all of history.

Javert was failing Jean Valjean yet again. Duty had demanded his obedience to the Mayor at Montreuil-sur-Mer, and duty had snatched him from Death’s bowels a day ago. But what had he produced from a day’s work? Several trinkets from the girl and no plausible idea of her whereabouts. Javert had failed the Law and was now failing under mercy. His resignation to the Prefect was still in his coat pocket. Perhaps he should submit the letter after all.

“Javert.”

He turned. Valjean had been calling him for some seconds.

He said the first words that came to mind: “I did not mean to imply that Cosette was abducted. It was thoughtless of me, I –”

“Why did you want to jump?”

His heart stopped. Valjean knew.

“To jump?”

“Last night, at the Pont au Change. You weren’t just standing there. You were about to jump, were you?”

He couldn’t bring himself to lie, which was answer enough for Valjean.

Valjean waited, ever so patient, and Javert realized he wasn’t expected to respond if he didn’t want to. _Do you want to talk about it?_ He heard the silent question. This wasn’t an excuse for Valjean to pry into a desperate man’s motives. It was kindness, undeserved as everything else Jean Valjean had sent his way since freeing him of his ropes at the barricades. This kindness placed Valjean side-by-side with him, a gesture intending to comfort, to offer support. But it only managed to exposed Javert further, his true self appearing black when measured against a spotless good man.

To be hauled into the bright light, even the gentlest understanding was too painful to bear.

It was laughable, his ill-founded logic. Did he truly believe that death would absolve him of anything? Javert half-believed that he would have turned into a ghost, haunting Valjean’s coming in and going out with consciousness as his eternal punishment for shirking his responsibility to repay his debt, for being a coward. For someone who had spent decades holding the fugitive convict in contempt, the finger of accusation now pointed back at him, revealing the ugliness that was his heart for refusing to face the truth—to face a good man.

He readied himself to speak what he knew he must.

“If I had jumped, then I wouldn’t have to face you,” he confessed, not looking at Valjean.

The silence was contemplative. Javert waited as Valjean worked the pieces together, to arrive at the truth.

When he finally brought his eyes up to Valjean’s, he realized Valjean had been waiting for Javert to face him.

“You let me go.”

“Yes.”

 _For good?_ those eyes asked, uncertain, and Javert knew he could no longer keep the truth from him.

“I will never arrest you. I… cannot.”

If Valjean was shaking from relief, then he was shaking from the terror of the admission, of voicing what was already the reality.

He ought to feel superior, a captor letting his convict go free. But each shudder of his heart infused more shame into his body, reminding him of every instance when he had denied mercy to Valjean. He was never one to shirk from his faults. But confessing to Valjean, who only days ago was deemed lower than the grime on his boots until he suddenly transformed into a man brimming with a goodness that Javert could never attain, grated inferiority against his soul. It was far worst than the most excruciating pain he had ever experienced.

He could not avoid that burning gaze, and so Javert silently endured.

“Thank you.”

The words were so soft that he could choose to ignore them, pretend that they did not rub salt into his wounds. Javert did not know how he should respond; he pretended he didn’t hear.

Valjean did not take offense.

“And because you could not arrest me,” he continued, “you resigned from the Prefecture.”

“Yes.”

“And you were prepared to resign from God.”

A pause. He was defiant and brazen on the parapet yesterday, bold in all the wrong places and blind to the coward that he was.

“Yes.”

 _Why?_ There was pain on that face, pain on behalf of Javert.

He had to look away.

 _You are a good man and I was wrong to have wanted to arrest you,_ he did not say. Some wounds were too fresh to pick at, and this was one of them.

“I will find your daughter,” he promised.

“Thank you, Javert.”

Jean Valjean, it seemed, knew him too well. The voice of the mayor pushed on, demanding his attention, his obedience: “But I hope you know what you are doing for me is not penance. It’s not for whatever imagined offense that led you to the bridge. You have granted me freedom and now hope of finding Cosette. These are acts of a good man. You are a good man, Javert. You have always been.”

Javert shook his head. “I have betrayed the law.”

He half-expected Valjean to offer his hands to be shackled again, but when no word came, Javert realized the true value of freedom to Valjean. The convict was free. Nothing, aside from Cosette perhaps, could compel him to condemn himself to the bagne again.

“I have lived a simple but content life by the grace of God. Javert, you can do the same.”

He laughed. It sounded like glass drawn across metal. “So you saved my life twice only to now smother me with kindness! No, Monsieur, there is no place in heaven for me. Let me solve the case for you. Then I will stay out of your life forever.”

“No.”

The word was forceful, almost stern. It was so unexpected that Javert turned and gaped at Valjean.

“No, Javert. You must not be alone. You are in turmoil, anyone can see that. I will not permit you to be alone.”

“Not permit!” Another sound that resembled more shriek than laughter. “See here, the saint refuses to let a wretch die once again! What do you want from me, Valjean? If you want my life, it is already yours. I should have died at the barricades, I did not need your kindness. That was how things should have been, the convict ridding himself of his jailer! Then you would be a criminal who stole and broke parole and killed, and that would be the proper order of things. And yet here I am, drinking tea and sitting next to a… a – what _are_ you? A man forgiven by his captor! A good man! This is impossible. You are impossible!”

He thought he heard his name repeated many times. He ignored the imagined voices.

“And you, why are you not angry? Have you not yet realized? If you had not—or better yet, if _your God_ had not seen it fit to lead you to the river—if, as you said, you decided to come here last night instead, you would have no use of me! Do you not see? You lost Cosette because of me! You could have stopped her from leaving. No, not only that. You could have stopped Fantine from dying! I killed her, you said. Of course I did, I see it now. My anger choked away your kindness and she needed kindness to live. I thwart your every effort, Jean Valjean. Imagine a world without Inspector Javert. How much better it would be. For you, for Cosette, for Montreuil-sur-Mer. No, you don’t need me. And I do not need your _permission_. After this, I will return to the Seine and end it properly.”

He was excited, the words swirling in his mind having finally found an exit to burst out of him. He was also shaking, just like he was shaking on the parapet of the Pont au Change, every nerve in his body thrumming with an unnatural energy that he would sooner see extinguished from his being, snuffed out of existence. He had wanted to die, then later thought he was glad to have lived. And now he wanted to die again—damn his two-heartedness.

If there was no Valjean last night, if he had allowed his mind to follow his thoughts to their proper conclusion, would he have jumped?

Valjean had stopped calling his name. Instead, Javert was now faced with more pain and sadness in those eyes than he had ever seen.

Valjean sighed. “Your mind will be tormented in fits and bouts. There will be times when you will want to go back to the bridge, to die. But believe me, Javert, if you follow God’s path, you will be glad to have lived.”

He glared, though he couldn’t muster too much strength for it. What did Valjean know about this? Saints did not contemplate suicide.

Valjean seemed to have read his thoughts.

“You may think I do not understand. Let me tell you a story, and then you can judge my fitness for offering my thoughts.” He paused, giving Javert a chance to protest if he chose. Javert made no sound. “On the night when I robbed the Bishop of Digne, I was fleeing with the illicit silver with nothing but one goal in my mind: run. I knew if I could get far away before news of the robbery spread, I could sell the silver several towns from Digne. When the gendarmes stopped me, I wanted to resist, to fight for my newfound freedom. I would do anything to remain a freeman one more day, to breathe in the country air that wasn’t tainted with sea salt.

“But then they told me I would be brought back to the Bishop, and all the fight was drained from me. It wasn’t fear, Javert, I was too wretched to have a conscience that knew fear and shame. The prospect of facing a good man for my crime was more akin to a death knell. I thought: the Bishop would condemn me, I would be returned to Toulon, there was no escape! Suddenly, I wanted to stop existing; I didn’t want to live anymore.

“You know what happened next. The Bishop forgave me and gifted me with his silver. I was granted freedom again. And what did I do to repay the Bishop’s charity? I robbed a boy.”

 _So it was true_ , Javert thought to himself. Jean Valjean did steal from the chimney sweep. By the look on his face, he was utterly remorseful over it.

“I tried to give the silver back but I could not find him. Petit Gervais was his name. I suppose he is not _Petit_ anymore. I walked back to the Bishop’s home but could not gather enough courage to enter. I had failed him completely. I saw for the first time in my life that there was nothing good in me. I didn’t want to go back to Toulon but I also did not know what lay ahead. If I had been near a river that day, I believe I would have hurled myself into its depths.”

If Valjean had died then, there would be no lives saved from the fire, no men saved from cart or drowning. And if the Bishop were to learn of his death, Javert knew the holy man would not be nodding in approval as Saul of Tarsus once did when condemning Saint Stephen to his death. He would grieve for someone whom he had called brother, just as Valjean later mourned for the Bishop’s death, a deep bond forged between two unlikely men through the briefest of encounters.

And, he realized with a pang, while even a convict would have someone to mourn for him, no one would doff a hat or shed a tear over the drowned body of Inspector Javert.

“What made you want to live again?” he asked. _What made you good?_

Valjean smiled. It was the smile of a man who had lived through years of hardship. The smile did not mock. “Ah, this is what I’m trying to say, Javert. Nothing made me suddenly want to live again. I walked away from the Bishop’s home a changed man, yes, but I would still sooner choose death over life if I was offered the options each time I woke from nightmares.

“Flowers, Javert. Flowers and trees and the smell of grass. I was traveling alone in God’s vast creation. There were no guards ordering me around or treating me with contempt. I lived, day by day, thankful for the good days and enduring the bad ones.

“The bad days will continue. There were times even in Montreuil when I would fall into melancholy. But I had a duty to the townspeople. Later, I had a duty to Cosette. Along the way, I learned to love. And perhaps that was when God finally healed me, allowing the past to cease their taunting and entrusting the most beautiful creature in the world into my care.”

A hand pressed down gently on Javert’s arm. He started, but did not pull away.

“You do not know what lies ahead now, just as I did not know what my future held. But you are a good man. Hold onto your sense of duty, if that would help. Find Cosette for me, I wish for nothing more. But after you have performed your duty, do not be alone.”

He stared at the hand and at the white scars that marked the wrist. The hand offered a duty to be performed. It also promised a future.

Valjean took his silence as agreement. The hand gave a squeeze, and then the warmth was gone.

Javert felt as if he needed to say something. “Thank you,” he managed, and Valjean nodded.

_Ding!_

Both men jumped in their seats.

Surprise flitted through Valjean’s face. “The gate. Someone has pulled the chime.”

Javert stood, letting duty once again overtake him. “Walk behind me, Valjean. This is unusual. I ought to lead and investigate.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he thought he saw a smile.

-

In the fading daylight, two figures stood outside the gate waiting to be admitted into the house while two older men descended the stairs to meet their visitors. No one noticed a young girl, nimble as a cat, slipping out of a window and running away from the house with all her might.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first time writing Azelma. I picture her to be just an average girl trying to make it in life, grieving but resilient at the core. I hope her personality came across as I intended!
> 
> And thank you to everyone who has been reading and leaving me such encouraging feedback! <3


	8. In Which Answers Brought Clarity but Not Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean and Javert face their unexpected visitors, and the case continues.

“Inspector Javert!”

The voice belonged to a young man—someone who was tired and surprised. Both the voice and the face were familiar.

Javert nodded in recognition, his face betraying nothing. From behind him, Jean Valjean noticed the tensing of his shoulders, a fierce wolf-dog ready to fight.

Valjean smiled. Javert was willing to protect _him_.

He stepped forward before any misunderstanding could ensue. “Officers,” he greeted, “I must confess, I was not expecting you.” To Javert, he said, “Inspector, these are the good messieurs who pointed me your way last night.”

“It is good that Monsieur Fauchelevent has secured the assistance from the inspector,” the younger looking of the two gendarmes spoke. Valjean remembered him to be the more kindly one who suggested that he sought help from the police station house. Unknowingly, this man had saved Javert’s life.

The gendarme continued, “Monsieur had asked us to look for a Mademoiselle that matches the description of your daughter –”

Valjean’s heart leapt up to his throat. “Did you find her?”

“Unfortunately, no. My partner and I, we were patrolling near the _Rive Droite_. We heard noises near the bank, where the marshlands under the bridge remain unprotected and dangerous. There were two men. They looked suspicious. So Georges here sent word back to the Prefecture to post guards near the area –”

“These men, did you recognize them?” Javert asked.

Both gendarmes shook their heads.

“What did they speak about?”

Georges dipped his head. “They speak in code, as you well know, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. They mentioned 'the local watering hole,' which can be anywhere.”

“Tell me more,” Javert snapped. “You cannot appear here offering unsubstantiated theories only to upset the good Monsieur. I need clues, leads. What did you see, what time of the day it was, what the men were wearing. Details!”

For several seconds, both gendarmes seemed to have frozen in place, and Valjean was glad he was not the object—or subject—of the fierce inspector’s interrogation. Before him was a man with the authority of the Law and a nose like a wolf that could trace the faintest scent of crime. He concluded he never wanted to be on the wrong side of Javert’s favor again.

At length, Georges nudged his partner with an elbow. “Inspector, Marcel here, he was going to tell you something before, ah…”

“Before I cut you off for spouting nonsense?”

“No, that’s not –” George stammered, but Marcel steadied himself to report what he had prepared to say, his back now a bit straighter: “Inspector, when the Prefecture took Georges’s suggestion and sent men to scour the area, the two people we saw were gone. But they found a female who has been robbed of her possessions, unconscious. She isn’t Mademoiselle Fauchelevent,” he quickly added. “We took her to the hospital. When we later spoke with her, we learned that she has been with Mademoiselle Fauchelevent this morning.”

Pushing past Javert, Valjean took two steps toward the gendarmes. “Cosette? Is she –”

When the gendarmes’ eyes met his, he knew they still had not found her. “We do not know, Monsieur. But she is at the hospital. Inspector, it would be good if you would also come. It is better for you to speak with Mademoiselle Musichetta directly.”

-

Valjean had insisted that they take a cab to the hospital—an hour spent on walking was an hour wasted on investigation. But Javert refused, saying that they were too many people, that nothing was likely to happen this evening since (he swept his eyes over the metal gate) no note had come for them, and that taking a fiacre would attract attention when they arrived at a hospital that was used like an extension of the Prefecture for the police to deposit the sick and injured, always thronged with agents of the law. Thankfully, Valjean’s mouth clamped shut when he considered this last reason, the fugitive’s instinct still very much alive inside him.

“Then at the least, please let me go rouse Mademoiselle Azelma and inform her of our departure,” Valjean said, and Javert snorted.

“No need. She has already let herself out.” He tilted his head toward an upper window. Valjean followed his gaze, frowned, then opened his mouth again. Javert held up a hand. “I know what you are about to say, that this window is never closed save during the winter months. You are correct. But look at the curtains. They are flapping about. I suppose the room has another window opening to the back of the house? Well, that window has just been pried opened.”

Valjean looked from window to Javert. “Ah,” he said, in that vague tone of his that hid a multitude of emotions. Judging by the disappearance of the earlier frown, Javert concluded it was a good _ah_ , like the ones that used to offend his sense of duty as he delivered weekly reports to the mayor through gritted teeth: so and so could no longer be arrested because money was mysteriously found in the person’s quarters to have enabled the repayment of a significant debt. _Ah, thank you Javert, it is good to be informed of such good news_ —as if Madeleine had not already known how the good news came about.

“Inspector?” It was Marcel, who had drawn near, following his gaze toward the window. “Is something the matter? Should we stay behind to guard M. Fauchelevent’s house?”

“No need,” he said. “But both of you, return to the Prefecture and draw up a file for what you have discovered. Then send word to the station house at the Place du Chatelet and ask the clerk there to deliver to the Prefecture M. Fauchelevent’s case that he recorded there last night. Combine the two files. I want to see all paperwork completed by the time I return to the Prefecture. Is this clear?”

“Yes, Monsieur!”

“You have your orders. Now go.”

“Right away, Monsieur l’Inspecteur!”

Javert watched the two young gendarmes sprint away and did not fight the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. He relished the rush of energy that suddenly coursed through his veins. His heart was beating at a faster pace; his intake of breath, a bit quicker. This was the first time since the students’ uprising that he interacted with other officers of the law. The realization sent a jolt of euphoria all over him, blanketing him with a sense of professional pride, of a job well done. In this moment, the world seemed to have righted itself before him, and he felt once again that he had a defined purpose in this life to fulfill.

By God, how he had missed police work.

In this welcomed state of satisfaction, it took him perhaps longer than usual to realize that Valjean was not also watching the gendarmes depart, but looking at _him_.

“What is it?” he snapped, happiness forgotten. Valjean’s presence, once he was reminded of it, was not something that he could simply cast aside. There was the hair rising at the back of his neck. There was also the strange awareness of seeing not with his eyes but with his senses that, like a man trapped in utter darkness who could nevertheless detect the approach of a dangerous shadow, alerted him to the reality that this duty he was performing was his last duty—for having let a convict go unarrested, he was no longer fit to serve the law.

He whipped his head around. Harsh words were ready on his tongue as something bitter like impatience and resentment rose in him. But when he locked eyes with Valjean, he froze.

Valjean’s lips were curved into a smile, his countenance thoughtful. Upon coming face-to-face with Javert’s stupefied expression, the smile broadened, reaching his eyes, crinkled lines deepening, the proof of genuine goodwill.

No one had looked at him like this before, with open admiration. Not even his mother.

“You are a good inspector, Javert,” came the praise, and it didn’t feel like mockery, didn’t give room for him to renounce his fitness to remain with the police. It was familiar, like hearing praise from M. Madeleine’s lips again—Javert could never quite banish the ball of warmth that would spread from his chest each time his competence was affirmed by the mayor. Pride, the vilest of all offenses, and the very hardest one to root out. He felt his face heat up as that familiar tingle wrapped around his heart. He couldn’t contain it any better now.

Valjean laughed softly as if chiding himself for ever deigning to think otherwise. “I used to wonder, at Montreuil-sur-Mer, whether the gendarmes spent all day cowering before you.”

“Many did,” he said dryly.

“Ah, but so did Marcel and Georges. If it’s fear from your subordinates that you desire, then you have always had it.” The smile was still there, tempering the harsh truth, making it better somehow. “You are severe, yes. But you give sensible orders, and I am certain they know it too.”

“Oh, those two have better find themselves some sense, or else, so help them God,” he muttered. To Valjean, he retorted: “Have I not told you enough times in Montreuil? To be in the police, sensibility is required. Even the lowest ranked patrolman’s day is filled with uncertainty. He must know how to make quick decisions at all times. He must never let his guard down.”

He searched Valjean’s face for signs of understanding beneath that inexplicable, continued esteem directed his way and was unsurprised to find none. In truth, Javert did not expect Valjean to understand. After all, he never did. He glared pointedly at Valjean. “Of course, in that backwater town of yours, Monsieur le Maire, nothing ever happened except for a series of home break-ins that resulted in the victims becoming richer by more than three months’ wages.”

The disapproval was lost on Valjean, for he suddenly burst into laughter—his shoulders shaking and his head tilted back—as if Javert had meant the words not as an accusation but as a joke. At this sight, Javert felt his limbs turn into stone; all he could do was stare. Valjean retained his gentleness even in laughter, and the line between Jean Valjean and Madeleine once again blurred, bringing him back to a time when that head was not yet white and the man not yet condemned to a life spent in hiding. For several brief seconds, Valjean’s expression was pure mirth, and Javert realized just how weighed down by sorrow Valjean had been since the disappearance of his daughter—the sentiment was so pervasive as to have been rendered invisible until now. He thought back to Valjean at the barricades. His expression had been grave, the solemn mourning of the pending death of so many young boys. But he wasn’t grieving then, Javert remembered, his face was not yet shrouded in dark shadows.

“Javert,” said Valjean, a smile lingering in his voice.

Javert’s mind pulled back from Montreuil and from the barricades; he was drawn like a mule by the bit in its mouth toward the unfamiliar tone. It was the first time his name was spoken like this by a man who now knew he was free, who had nothing to fear before him. Javert searched his heart. There was not a hint of regret there. No, for finally granting Valjean his freedom, Javert knew he would give up a thousand days of serving with the police.

Valjean said nothing more after that, and Javert noticed, this time, that sorrow had once again returned to Vajean’s countenance. He didn’t know if he should wait for Valjean to say more. He didn’t want to move—couldn’t, being pinned by Valjean’s gaze—but if they continued to stare at each other like this, idling away precious time, then they would indeed need to take a cab to the hospital.

“What are you thinking about?” It was like a gentle press to the hand, with all the willingness to share a burden but without imposing. Vaguely, Javert remembered where they had left off before the gendarmes had interrupted. Ah, yes. They were discussing the state of his soul.

It was baffling that Jean Valjean, disregarding the turmoil of his own heart, still retained enough kindness to extend concern for him. The most stubborn man he knew was refusing to let their earlier conversation drop without a proper conclusion. He supposed he couldn’t fault Valjean when the matter at hand concerned his attempt to kill himself, a mortal sin in the eyes of a pious man.

“Javert.”

This time, the calling of his name felt like a brush to his soul, reaching into depths that he did not know existed. Valjean’s eyes were doing the same to his outer shell, fixing him with an intent gaze, probing, waiting. Javert wondered if Valjean had learned this skill as a parent. He had seen it in the interactions between mothers and sons, between fathers and daughters: the repeated calling of the child’s name, relaying clearly that whatever matter on hand was not yet settled, that a reckoning was still required.

He found himself giving in. “I am fine, Valjean. You say that I am good at my job. So let me do what I can do well.” When Valjean looked unconvinced, he added, “I will not hurl myself into the Seine, if this is the assurance you seek.”

At this, Valjean relaxed by several degrees; his shoulders were no longer unnaturally tight as if propped up by a held breath. A small smile returned. “Then let us go to the hospital.”

Javert nodded. He did not know what to say to soothe the terrible grief in Valjean that his eyes were now opened to see. Short of delivering a daughter back to her father, he knew of no other gesture or promise that could carry the terrible burden away.

-

Musichetta turned over on her side, groaning. The hospital bed gave a matching squeak. She hurt all over, so it didn’t matter how she positioned herself, not when every movement sent a fresh reminder to the very unpleasant incident that she and poor Cosette had encountered this morning.

It was her fault, really, to be so careless about where she was going. But she didn’t care at the time—she still didn’t, if she were honest with herself—because how bad would it be for her to die? The two people dearest to her had both perished at the barricades. It made her feel unfaithful to remain alive. She remembered the promises she made to Laigle: they spoke of shared devotion and enduring love, comparing them to the abiding presence of the law. And the vows she whispered to Joly: they hinted at an eternity of flourishing and joy that lifted even the hypochondriac out of wallowing in his imaginary chronic illness. They were a loving family, the three of them, if a bit untraditional. The commitments they gave to and received from each other—three bodies straining together in an amateur attempt to forge something eternal out of fleeting pleasures—these commitments were supposed to usher in the new future of France, to finally fulfill the slogans from forty years ago: real _liberté_ and _égalité_ , copious amount of _fraternité_ with a healthy dose of _sororité_.

And now her bed was as empty as her heart, and the soreness that weighed down her limbs was no longer of the pleasant kind.

She heard footsteps approaching, people who probably wanted to pry information out of her. Musichetta squeezed her eyes shut. If she ignored them long enough, would she wake up back on June 4, 1832, back to Joly and Laigle, back to life and laughter and a world that hadn’t already ended?

“Mademoiselle Musichetta.”

The voice was gentle, like a balm reaching into the depths of her bleeding heart to sooth away the pain. The voice paused, waiting for her to respond, giving her the choice to accept a conversation imposed upon her or to reject it. This voice was not like the police, cold and demanding. It was hesitant, yet hopeful, fragile like a hand offering food to a bird lest it startled the creature into a flutter of wings.

She opened her eyes.

An old man had sat down into the chair next to the bed, his hair white and his face lined with sorrow and worry and many more emotions that Musichetta could not fully name, though none of them was pleasant. There was a gleam of pain hidden inside those gentle eyes. The man’s hands, folded politely on his lap, were roughened by many years of labor, belonging to that of a peasant and not of a pampered _bourgeois_. She noticed that the grip of one hand over the other was just a bit too tight, too desperate, whitening the knuckles like white hills peaking out of a larger mountain lined with hardening veins. These were strong hands; there was much strength still left in this kind-looking man. Musichetta raised her eyes again to spy the poorly concealed pain that the man was doing a very poor job in hiding.

This man was hurting, just like her.

“Do I know you?” she asked, accepting the request for discourse.

The man shook his head. “I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle. But perhaps –” He paused, and Musichetta wondered if he thought her to be a twig that could be easily crushed or snapped in two, that an improper choice of words would somehow shatter her spirit. While her spirit possessed no such weakness, she could not bring herself to feel insulted by the old man.

“Perhaps I should introduce myself,” he began again. “My name is Ultime Fauchelevent.”

 _Fauchelevent!_ “You! You are Cosette’s father!”

The man smiled. His twitch of lips magnified the sadness in his eyes.

“I suppose you’re here to question me,” she said, more to herself than to M. Fauchelevent. She had already told the police what happened, how a wrong turn had led them not to the barricades but to a deserted river bank—she was not paying attention in her grief and Cosette didn’t seem familiar with the streets of Paris, an oddity now that she thought back at their ill-fated journey—and how two men of unsavory characters had attacked them. She had offered her money and what meager possessions she had with her—even herself, for what was left for her to lose?—in exchange for Cosette’s safety. But those men… it was as if they weren’t ordinary scoundrels seeking riches or a quick thrill. They paid no heed to her and that was when she was knocked unconscious. It was as if –

“Those men! They wanted Cosette!”

Fauchelevent gasped, concern deepening the lines on his face despite his incomprehension. “What did they do?” he exclaimed.

“I… I don’t know…” She brought a hand to her face, using the heel of her hand to rub away the stinging of her eyes. “They – two men, they appeared as if from thin air. They didn’t want me, I can see it now, they seized Cosette. She wasn’t injured. One of them hoisted her over his shoulder. Then I passed out.”

Removing her hand, she saw M. Fauchelevent in utter consternation. His hands were now gripping the arms of the chair so tightly that Musichetta thought she saw the chair shaking from the force alone. She ignored her protesting body and sat up in the bed. “Perhaps I should start from the beginning,” she said, looking at the old man. Her words seemed to have broken him out of his rush of sudden panic. He nodded.

She began, “I have never met Mademoiselle Cosette until this morning. We know of each other, of course, or at least I know of her. She was all Marius would talk about, and naturally, his friends wouldn’t let such romantic fixation go unridiculed. My, ah, friends, Joly and Bossuet Laigle, they would always speculate about this mysterious Cosette whenever we are together.” _Were_ , her mind corrected, and the stinging sensation was back in her eyes.

The old man sat patiently and waited. He seemed to understand why she had stopped, and she wondered if her eyes had been red-rimmed all along.

“The group of students, your friends,” he prompted several minutes later, gentle as ever. Musichetta had the distinct feeling that if the current matter did not concern the abduction of his daughter, the gentleman would have long excused himself to allow her the space and time to mourn.

But she owed it to the good monsieur to continue. “I saw them, all of them, dead, at the barricades. Someone had lined up the bodies inside the Corinthe bar, on the ground floor, and…” _and they were there_ , her Joly and Laigle, among their fallen brothers. Even the little boy who liked to be around them was there. There was blood on him, there was blood everywhere. She shook her head, trying to clear away the image in her mind. But no amount of shaking would wake her from this nightmare.

“I didn’t count,” she continued. “But I noticed something peculiar, something that initially filled me with confusion and then later with so much anger, when I finally understood what it meant. Because it’s not fair, it’s so not fair – him, Marius! He has no right to, to –”

“Survive?” Fauchelevent finished for her, and she nodded. Yes, the group of friends had vowed to fight together. They were supposed to win, but if they didn’t, then they would die together. And yet when Musichetta had searched for the face of one of them, she realized that Marius was not there. He was not dead.

“I was angry. I went home angry. And for the whole night I was angry. I huddled in my bed all alone, thinking why it couldn’t have at least been one of them—dear God, if not both Joly and Laigle, then at least spare one to come home to me! I… it took me until the early morning to realize that the very thing I had wished for myself was perhaps an answered prayer for Cosette.

“She didn’t know, I was certain, for I didn’t see her at the Corinthe after the barricades fell. But I remember where she lives, the way Marius would always come late to meetings with his face flustered, mumbling some excuses and letting slip about being at the Rue Plumet. I don’t know what compelled me, but I went, I headed to Rue Plumet and searched house after house. I have no idea what I was looking for. I think, now, that I was looking for myself. I had hoped for a miracle that didn’t come true. I wanted to see, to know what it was like to have a miracle happen to somebody. She… she had no idea. She didn’t even plead with God to spare her lover’s life, and yet _she_ is given the happy ending!”

The words came rushing out of her now, and Musichetta felt as if she was a spirit hovering outside of her body, observing her face becoming flushed and her eyes growing wild, ignoring the pained expression on the old man’s face as the depth of her unintended vitriol found an outlet in him. She felt herself clawing the bedsheet, bundling coarse fabric with angry fingers, digging and twisting to mimic the sensation she felt in her heart as she recounted the day’s events.

She breathed, then breathed again, to steady herself.

“I was surprised when I found Cosette sitting outside, in her garden. She’s so nice, so innocent. I couldn’t… there was nothing to hate. She asked why I was there, and so I told her about the barricades. And that was when I realized she knew nothing about Paris’s uprising. Monsieur, you have protected her well, she was completely spared from worry and anguish. She thought Marius would simply come to her, and perhaps he would, but I began to think: Would he not have already gone to her, if he had escaped the barricades unscathed? He must be injured, and I told her the same as gently as I could. Seeing her bright eyes dim with realization—the horror there—that was when I began to doubt myself. Did I really not see Marius among the fallen bodies? Was I raising hope in someone so trusting of me, only to have that hope crushed if I turn out to be a liar?

“Cosette asked many questions, but I couldn’t answer them. And so I consented to take her to the barricades—she insisted on going there before going to Marius’s apartment, though if he was injured I would think him to be with his family, I had heard that he came from a wealthy lineage. But as you know, we never arrived the barricades. We got lost and the men attacked us. And this is what I do not understand, Monsieur, though I am becoming more and more convinced of it. It was as if these men already knew of Cosette’s whereabouts. They merely waited to draw us into a deserted part of Paris. It was as if they had been biding their chance to capture Cosette for weeks and months.”

Silence fell heavy like a duvet on the hospital bed, and when Fauchelevent breathed out heavily, it was the sound of someone who had thought through everything he had heard and had now come to a conclusion.

“Thank you, Mademoiselle,” he said quietly, as if speaking louder would cause his voice to quiver too much. “You have provided more information than I have hoped for, and it is indeed clear to me that Cosette has become the unfortunate target of scoundrels, unbeknownst to both her and myself. You are correct in saying that Cosette has lived a sheltered life. I have tried to protect her. My only fault lies in not realizing that she is no longer a child, that she has her own will… that I cannot protect her forever.”

The last words were spoken through a sob. Musichetta felt her heart twist for the pain of the old man. If she hadn’t…

“And please, Mademoiselle, do not believe any of this to be your fault,” Fauchelevent continued as if reading her mind. “If these men were so intent on seizing Cosette, she would fall prey to them eventually, whether it was this morning or two days from now.”

“These men, what do they look like?” a voice asked from behind M. Fauchelevent, and Musichetta started in surprise. They were not alone!

Fauchelevent turned his head. “Javert, you have scared her,” he whispered, though in the nearness she could hear his words perfectly well.

“I do no such thing,” came the reply. “This wing of the hospital is used by the police. She should know there are always policemen around.”

“But how could she know?” Fauchelevent protested, his whisper fiercer this time.

“Oh for – Mademoiselle –” The officer turned to her. “I am Javert of the Paris Prefecture, Inspector, First Class. I want the physical descriptions of the ruffians who assaulted you and abducted M. Fauchelevent’s daughter. Please provide as much information as you can recall, as I am sure you, like us, want to see those criminals apprehended.”

That, she did. She nodded in what she hoped was a greeting—it was what she intended anyway, though her head felt like it was more than twice the size as usual and even the slightest twist of her neck hurt. While she was not particularly fond of the police, the inspector’s request was one she could oblige. She didn’t think she could ever forget those two men’s faces.

“The first man was the biggest man I have ever met. His face was unremarkable, maybe in his thirties or forties. But his size! He was easily another half a body length taller than I am, and perhaps even two of me would not make up his girth. He had a deep voice and spoke in slang. He mostly used simple words, speaking of 'grabbing' Cosette and pleasing 'the boss.' He was the one who took a hold of Cosette’s waist with one hand and then swung her over his shoulder like she was but a sack of grain. He… there was nothing conceivable I could think of at the time to be able to evade him, he was like a titan, a giant.

“The second man, he was this first man’s opposite. He was young and lithe, a very pretty boy.” _Just like Joly_ , the unwelcome thought attacked, and she had to fight through a lump in her throat. “Black hair, smooth face, his eyes bright and his cheeks rosy. Oh, I do think that his youthfulness may even resemble a little of Marius! But Marius is nothing like him though. When this criminal smiled, it was like that of a wolf. I knew right away he was a bad man, that despite his age he had already committed many crimes. He leered at me and Cosette, but when I offered to trade our freedom with, ah, with…”

“An offer he obviously refused,” Javert interjected, his expression neutral, ignoring Musichetta’s spreading blush. She was suddenly grateful for the inspector’s presence. M. Fauchelevent was too much like a parent. To broach the subject of proposition of a fleshly nature, even when it was offered as a bargain for escape, was simply too mortifying.

“Yes,” she continued. “He, too, seemed to be under strict orders to only perform the designated task. He taunted Mademoiselle Cosette a lot. He kept mentioning his boss and America, and how even if she didn’t prove useful in the end, there would be no consequences for her death once he leaves France.”

“Her death!” M. Fauchelevent exclaimed.

“The leader of the group intends to flee to America, and needs money to fund his transatlantic journey,” the inspector said. “We do not know if the youth was boasting, but it is something we must look into.”

Both men turned their attention back to Musichetta, who shrugged. “That is all, I’m afraid. This young criminal then shoved me to the ground. When I tried to struggle, the burly man hit me. I believe I fell unconscious then, but not before hearing the younger man laugh, then shouted something in triumph. Oh, his laugh, it was terrible, like the cackling of a crow! The words were peculiar too. It was – he said something will rise again. Père Minute, no, patron! Yes, Patron-Minette will rise again!”

Musichetta did not miss the growing realization on her listeners’ faces as she described her attackers. It was as if these two men had encountered these criminals before, that her words had opened up unpleasant memories to their minds.

When she recalled the younger criminal’s final words, however, neither man held back any longer. Both Fauchelevent and Inspector Javert said in unison, their voices a mixture of fear and disdain, of hatred and contempt: “Thénardier.”

The inspector stood in one swift motion. “Quick, Thénardier intends to demand money for taking Cosette hostage. He will need the funds before the next ship to America departs. The Prefecture can pursue the other members of Patron-Minette. But we must not delay or he will believe Cosette to have lost her value.”

He turned, expecting Fauchelevent to follow him.

M. Fauchelevent stood, his face drained of all colors. But before walking after the inspector, he paused and clasped a hand over Musichetta’s.

“Mademoiselle, I am sorry for your loss,” he said.

She stared at the hand engulfing hers. His hand was warm and the gesture comforting, but her heart felt cold, dead.

“Thank you,” she spoke into her lap, fighting the tears welling in her eyes.

A final squeeze of the hand, a whispered _may God be with you_ , and the kind gentleman was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, for reading. I welcome all thoughts and feedback!


	9. In Which the Paris Prefecture Gained an Investigator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert returns to the Prefecture for the first time since the uprising.

“Valjean, go home,” Javert said when he was certain that no one was near them outside the entrance of the hospital. The visit with Musichetta had lasted more than an hour, and while there was still light lingering in the sky when Georges and Marcel first arrived Valjean’s Rue Plumet house, by now night had completely fallen.

“And you? Are you going to the Prefecture?”

“I must. There is not a moment’s time to waste if our conjecture about Thénardier’s plan is correct.” It was important to report everything to the Prefect at once. Given the police’s preoccupation with restoring order to the streets of Paris, he didn’t know how long it would take to gain an audience with Gisquet. Perhaps Chabouillet would help. But Javert knew that securing anyone lower in rank than his patron would result in a stalled case, and this was not an option. “I will need to present the case as an opportunity to capture the Patron-Minette. That may gain the Prefect’s interest. Otherwise, a missing person case would not be a priority. I’m sorry that the police will seem insensitive. But you must understand, after yesterday –”

“Then let me go with you. Maybe my presence will help convince your superiors.”

If Valjean’s jaw wasn’t set in resolve and a glint of determination not in his eyes, Javert would have believed he had imagined those words. Did Valjean realize what he had proposed? “You cannot possibly think you are going there. Do I need to remind you what you are?”

“ _Were_ ,” Valjean said, his voice carrying the same fierceness that enabled him to defy heaven and hell to carry a revolutionary through the sewers, and Javert was transported back to the Seine, to the bridge, to the unspoken promise he first made there and then later in Valjean’s house: _I will not arrest you_.

A hundred possibilities flashed through his mind. Valjean, recognized by the lowliest gendarme at the entrance to the Prefecture, by the dullest clerk, by the janitor who only set foot in the building twice a week… Valjean, in chains before he could utter a word… Valjean, with fear in his eyes, with anger, with resentment, all directed his way… his colleagues, envious and awed that Javert had been right all these years… Chabouillet, smiling proudly at him, the only man who had never wavered in his support of Javert’s insistence to pursue Valjean’s case… the Prefect himself, penning him a commendation, with that flourish of a signature that spoke of a man of high privilege…

He had wanted all of this, once. Now, everything was the stuff of nightmares.

If Valjean noticed the sudden tensing of his body, the beads of sweat forming on his temple, then he chose not to remark on it. Instead, he continued in a quieter voice, probing Javert: “Only you know of my past.”

 _Or so you believe_ , Javert did not say, ignored the twinge of guilt eating away at his heart like termites devouring wood. He could not find enough courage in him to confess that almost all of his colleagues, and most certainly his superiors, knew about Jean Valjean. After all, who wouldn’t have known about his self-righteous tirade about having seen the escaped convict giving alms in Paris, demanding the Prefecture to permit him to take a troop of gendarmes to stage an elaborate capture? Who hadn’t then whispered the name _Javert_ for days afterwards, when the only reason he gave for the failed mission was that the man had vanished from thin air? And who wouldn’t remember Javert, humiliated and yet unrelenting in his insistence that Jean Valjean was indeed still alive and roaming the streets in stolen freedom, making a spectacle of himself before a furious Gisquet, escaping dismissal only by the underserved favor and influence of his patron?

No. Even the newer policemen would know about the supposedly dead mayor-turned-convict who appeared to no one but Javert, like a bespoken ghost who haunted only the man who hated him most. Javert’s personal vengeance, they called it, always in a mocking tone and accompanied with a curl of lips. He’d scoffed when he had first heard it whispered among his peers, believing himself to be the more dedicated one, irreproachable in his service to the law. He was blind then, and the blind was unable to recognize even the plainest truth placed in front of unseeing eyes.

He crossed his arms around his chest, as if the gesture could cover him from his failures. “Monsieur Fauchelevent, my promise to you is to find and deliver you a daughter, not to have you both lost and shipped out of Paris.”

Valjean gave him a long, searching look. Javert ignored him, staring straight ahead instead, fixing his eyes at the stars that now hung like heaven’s lanterns across the dark sky. Each twinkle was a signal directed toward people like him—servants of the law—telling them that they must not rest until Paris’s turmoil had subsided.

The stars were always his anchor. In his youth, they were guides that directed his paths. Later, they signified duty, lamps unto his feet that ensured he treaded in the way of the Lord. Now, they seemed to be warnings, illuminating Jean Valjean next to him, reminding Javert that as long as he was duty-bound to the man, he must not give into the call of the Seine.

A drop of sweat rolled down his face, on the side where Valjean stood looking at him. It left behind a trail of cold wetness.

He felt, rather than saw, Valjean’s eyes narrow. He always knew when Valjean was looking at him too closely; the hairs at the back of his neck would stand to attention, sending a shiver like a cold gust of wind down his spine. But he could not hide from the penetrating gaze. Nor could he guess what was going through Valjean’s mind, so focused was he in examining Javert like a specimen that Javert felt petrified, pinned by knowing eyes like a victim of Medusa. After a long moment, Valjean sighed, the soft breath of a man deep in thought. Javert did not miss the irony. He had spent years hunting and pursuing, only to now have Valjean so close by him that, if he were to extend a hand or simply lean over, the convict would be under the clutches of the Law again.

The moon, as if tired of being stared at, hid behind thick night clouds. The absence of the greater light brought out the stars like candles illuminating a vast, dark room. Javert found himself wondering if this wasn’t an apt metaphor for the poor state of his soul; he had believed himself to be a favored servant of God only in the absence of a true saint. Against Valjean, he was no better than an imposter, a pig pretending to be a civilized man.

Valjean sighed a second time.

“How will I know you won’t betray my identity after all?” he asked softly.

Javert felt every muscle in his body tightening, ready to flee from being exposed and into the darkness. His heart twisted with a strange sensation. Of course he would be suspicious. Valjean had no reason to trust him.

_I no longer see you as a criminal. But I will always be like a traitor to you. Because that is what I am._

He forced a complete lack of moisture down his dry throat. “You don’t,” he confessed. The words burned.

 _Can I trust you?_ Valjean’s eyes asked, and Javert heard him without turning to look. He held his breath, having no answer to give Valjean. _Yes, trust me and dig the hole of your own demise_. That would be foolish. _No, do not trust me; give up the quest for your daughter_. That would be heartless, the very opposite of Jean Valjean. Which would he choose?

But Valjean, ever the impossible man who eluded Javert’s grasp, rejected both paths and devised a third. “You won’t. I know you Javert, you are an honorable man.”

He laughed then. It was a laugh reserved only for Valjean, for all the ridiculous things he had uttered over the years. “If you truly believe that, then you are too naïve.”

Valjean remained serious. “Javert, I mean it. You will not betray me, whether in the streets of Paris or inside the Prefecture.” Javert turned, wondering if the man next to him had lost all sensibility. Valjean was undaunted. His eyes were shining, exuding a confidence so bright that it could burn. If faith had a form, Javert supposed it would be more blinding than the brightest and purest star. Their eyes connected. “Please, let me go with you.”

The waves in his mind roared louder. Was it his imagination? Surely Valjean must be hearing it too –

It suddenly occurred to him that perhaps Valjean also shouldn’t be left alone, the grieving father of a lost child.

“Valjean, if anyone becomes suspicious, I cannot protect you.”

The gaze was back on him, crushing his conscience in silent assessment. Javert kept still, arms gripping himself tighter, submitting himself to whatever it was that Valjean was looking for. What sort of man was he, about to lead a criminal into the den of policemen and yet withholding any promise of help? Surely Valjean would finally notice just what a worm he was and change his mind?

But Valjean repeated, “Let me go with you.” He left no room for disagreement this time.

Javert could only nod. “Very well, Monsieur Fauchelevent. I would be delighted to have your company.”

-

It was past ten by the time they reached the Prefecture. But when Javert entered, with Valjean trailing one or two steps behind him, it was as if he had walked in during midday, so filled with policemen was the place the day after the revolution that his presence here did not seem out of place. Sensing Valjean’s growing dread at seeing so many policemen at once, he slowed his pace to walk shoulder-to-shoulder with him. He cast Valjean a quick glance. The man’s face was pale, almost ashen, and his eyes betrayed panic that could not be suppressed.

“When I was in Montreuil, I had always wanted to show Monsieur le Maire the Paris Prefecture,” he said, keeping his tone conversational. A seed of panic had also cracked open inside him. Jean Valjean the convict would never survive this place. If he succumbed to terror now, no amount of protection from Javert would prevent him from being exposed and captured.

Fortunately, Valjean had understood Javert’s words. Breathing out, Valjean paused in their steps and squeezed his eyes shut. Javert waited, protecting his convict in silent support. It was strange, he thought as he noticed how labored the simple act of concentration had become for Valjean, that he had come to think of Jean Valjean as someone God had entrusted to him. To taunt and torment him, perhaps, but Javert could not bear the thought of losing Valjean. Not now. Not after everything in the past two days.

He was gratified to see that as each second passed, calmness gradually won its battle with fear. When they started walking again, Valjean’s back was straight and his head held high, the mask of M. Madeleine firmly in place. Javert turned his eyes toward the corridor, relieved. The fugitive had remembered how to hide. They were safe.

As soon as they entered the police’s work area, Javert found himself the recipient of many odd stares and open gapes. He could read the mind of every person he met eyes with: _But… didn’t you die?_

He pointed to his work station. “Sit,” he told Valjean. To his colleagues, he added: “This is M. Fauchelevent. I brought him here to assist with a case.” Grateful and visibly relieved, Valjean sat.

He then turned to the closest colleague beside him. Costeau was his name. “Is the Prefect on duty? I must inform him that I am taking on a case filed at the station house at the Place du Chatelet last night.”

“Monsieur le Secrétaire has command of the Prefecture tonight,” Costeau answered. He was all but gawking at Javert. “Beg your pardon, Javert, but when you didn’t return after infiltrating the rebels to feed them false information, we thought…”

Ah, he was supposed to report back to the Prefecture so the gendarmes could send word to the National Guards on the best approach to attack. In pondering his larger sins last night, he had completely forgotten to give an account for this smaller act of failure as well.

“I will report my failed duty to M. Chabouillet,” he replied curtly. He touched a hand inside his pocket, where his resignation letter still rested. It was fitting to quit the police, after all.

Costeau’s eyes widened. “What? No, Javert, I’m simply relieved that you have returned! We all thought you were dead!”

“As you can see, I am very much alive,” he said dryly.

Before Costeau could respond, the room became abuzz with commotion when a baritone voice boomed from behind Javert. “There you are! Thank God we haven’t lost you. We thought you perished at the barricades!”

Javert turned around and bowed. “Monsieur le Secrétaire.”

Chabouillet looked as if he wanted to set both hands on Javert’s shoulders—or worse, to enfold him into an embrace—but thought better of it and simply extended a hand. Javert took the hand, for it would be improper to refuse his superior and patron. Chabouillet shook it firmly for several seconds. He should not be looking so proud of him, Javert thought, as if praises were ready to flow from his lips. The Secrétaire should be disappointed, dismayed at Javert’s failure to complete his task. Had the National Guards received pertinent information about the schoolboys’ strategies, unsophisticated as they were, there might have been fewer casualties among the uniformed rank and files.

As soon as Chabouillet released his hand, Javert returned his arms to his sides and straightened his back. “A moment of your time, please, Monsieur le Secrétaire. There is an urgent matter I must discuss with you.”

Chabouillet cast him a look that clearly conveyed his doubt regarding the professed urgency of what item Javert had on his mind, but he nonetheless tilted his head toward his office. “Come, then, let us discuss your urgent matter in private. Have you eaten? I was about to take supper—I know, at this late hour, my wife would chastise me if she discovers—but the Prefecture needs supervision tonight and I cannot desert my post for a supper break, now, can I?”

“I am not hungry,” Javert said. It was not a lie. He had not eaten since being forced Valjean’s portress’s stew near the midday hours. He remembered feeling hunger at the hospital, though at the time he was too engrossed in Musichetta’s recounting of events to care. Now, his growing hunger disappeared at the thought of not only failing to report back to the Prefecture, but of having completely forgotten about the task. The need to confess his shortcomings sent his stomach roiling.

Chabouillet laughed and, holding the door open for him to enter, slapped a hand on his back as if he were a lad who had achieved some particularly remarkable feat. Javert tolerated the gesture as he would tolerate anything from a superior. He waited until Chabouillet took his seat behind the desk. He remained standing.

The door to the room was closed and the Secrétaire leaned close, suddenly acquiring an air of utter seriousness. Under the lantern light, Javert noticed that more of his patron’s hair had turned grey, so stressed was he over the past month in keeping track of Paris’s unrest. His eyes were bloodshot behind round-rimmed spectacles—an accessory he employed only when he was tired and his eyes had become strained—and his beard, though well trimmed, was becoming unkempt with the shadowing of a visage that had not been shaven for the past two days. But even in what would be considered a disheveled state, Chabouillet still retained an air of authority borne out of a sharpness of mind, his consummate administrative skills pointing to the facility with which he daily supported the work of the Prefect with the greatest efficiency, taking over supervision of the station when necessary. Javert recalled that Chabouillet had also been a field policeman once and was no less effective in that role, earning the approval of the Prefect at the time.

When a well worn handkerchief is compared with a new one, the whiteness of the latter would expose the defilement of the former. And so it was with the inspector. Against such a formidable man as his patron, Javert felt all the more that he had dishonored the uniform he still wore.

“Something is troubling you, Javert,” Chabouillet began. “Was it the barricades? If you require a leave of absence, I would gladly grant it.”

Javert bowed, hiding his face from the Secrétaire, hiding his shame. “You are too considerate, Monsieur. I do not require rest, not when my colleagues, you, and the Prefect himself are all dedicated to the task of bringing Paris back under law and order.”

“Then what is it you require?” Chabouillet asked, frowning. “Javert, I do not say this enough, but I truly value your service and it would vex me to see you exhaust yourself out of your sense of duty. The Prefecture needs more workers, yes, but we will manage should you need some time away.”

“I will have time away,” Javert said, knowing that his patron would not understand the true meaning of his words. He straightened himself into an impeccable posture of one relaying his police report. “Monsieur, I have come to request to take on a case that was filed with the police at Place du Chatelet yesterday. It involves the Patron-Minette and its leader, one Thénardier.”

“The Patron-Minette?” Chabouillet leaned further forward, his elbows planted on his desk, intrigued. The Prefecture had plotted many times to eradicate this group, but under Thénardier’s scheming, it had always resurfaced like a multi-headed hydra, refusing to die. “I was under the impression that one of its members, Claquesous, was executed by the revolutionary leader at the barricades at Rue de la Chanvrerie. He infiltrated the students under the alias Le Cabuc.”

“That is correct, Monsieur le Secrétaire. I was at that barricade. Claquesous was executed before I arrived, but I saw his body among the dead.”

“Ah, so the Patron-Minette is operating with one fewer member. That is good news. So what of this new case you are taking on? Will it enable us to rid Paris of the group entirely this time?”

At Chabouillet’s prompting, Javert relayed the pertinent facts on Cosette’s disappearance, Musichetta’s information, and his suspicions regarding Thénardier’s intention to escape to America. He was careful not to unnecessarily associate Valjean with too many of the case’s details. Perhaps, his mind supplied even as he voiced this theory to his patron, Thénardier wished to disentangle himself with a gang that was dwindling in number and influence. Having lost wife, daughters, and several other associates to the group’s failed criminal operations in recent years, his affiliation with the Patron-Minette had become more a dark shadow that tarnished his reputation among the city’s underworld than a badge of honor that inspired fear.

“This is very likely,” Chabouillet said, nodding. “By my count, the two men that the mademoiselles encountered—Guelemer and Montparnasse—and Thénardier are the only criminals still active by that association.”

“And what of Babet?” Javert asked, remembering this fourth member who was at the attempted extortion incident at the Gorbeau House.

“We have police informers tracking his every move. Babet seems keen to cut ties with the Patron-Minette, likely for the same reason that Thénardier is now seeking to distance himself. He is no threat at the moment. He knows his every move is being observed.”

Javert suddenly understood Montparnasse’s parting words: the youth was boasting of the return of the Patron-Minette precisely because the group was disintegrating from within. Whatever hold Thénardier still had on his two remaining gang members—money, perhaps?—would not endure for long. When a leader planned to flee the country before his minions discovered the promise of future power was but an illusion, it could only signify the impending doom of a criminal group that was once one of Paris’s strongest and most intimidating.

But that did not make the Patron-Minette any less dangerous.

“They still have the girl, and if the group is indeed internally weakened, then we will need to approach with the assumption that Gueulemer and Montparnasse do not yet realize the Patron-Minette would fall apart once Thénardier flees to America.”

Something like a predatory gleam sparked in Chabouillet’s eyes, and a sense of triumph burst forth from Javert’s heart. He was successful in presenting his case. The Secrétaire was now experiencing the rush of excitement that shot through the veins of a policeman when the closing in of a big case dangled before him. Javert had captured the interest of his patron.

“So the group will be separated,” Chabouillet mused, his words confirming the very conclusions that Javert was now forming in his head. “The two pawns will be used to draw away any associates that M. Fauchelevent will travel with, leaving Thénardier to meet him in private to demand ransom in exchange for the girl. He will take the money all for himself.”

The Secrétaire locked eyes with Javert. “You will need more help than the one or two gendarmes the Prefecture can spare at the moment.”

At this, Javert allowed himself a rare, genuine smile. Chabouillet appeared ready to jump from his chair and don the uniform and gears of an inspector, despite being many stations above in rank. And in the wake of the revolution, when police resources were stretched thin, Chabouillet had the necessary excuse to quell any raised concerns, suspicions, or eyebrows.

It would be improper to deprive France’s citizens of police protection in the days following a terrible revolution; it would be even more improper to allow three of Paris’s worst criminals to once again escape justice’s grasp.

Javert knew he had attained the permission needed to proceed with the case. He now also had Chabouillet personally engaged.

-

“Let us go, then,” said Chabouillet, rising from his chair. “I will assign Georges and Marcel to your case, since they are already involved. We will conduct basic strategies for now, but there are matters concerning the uprising that I will need to review with you for the rest of the night. You may inform M. Fauchelevent –”

“Monsieur, I would prefer him to remain here while we work.”

Chabouillet paused mid-motion from adjusting his spectacles. Had he heard Javert correctly? In all these years, he had never known this unyielding man to have a friend. One glance at how the two first walked into the police’s work area—he had seen them enter through his office’s window, his eyes glued to the sight as if seeing a vision of a Javert-shaped ghost returning to haunt the Prefecture—and he knew those two were more than mere acquaintances. And now Javert wanted to keep the man nearby…

“Fauchelevent, he is still in turmoil over the disappearance of his daughter.” There was the barest of pause, then Javert added: “It is not good for him to be alone.”

It sounded like a plea, and Javert never begged.

“Very well. If he is agreeable to staying here, then I have no objection. But as for the case, I am afraid I cannot allow us to spare more than an hour tonight to discuss our plans. You have my word, Javert, that we will reconvene tomorrow morning, by which time a ransom note will have arrived for M. Fauchelevent. We will then know the location and the time and will proceed with the rescue. With the four of us, we can surely match Thénardier’s three.

“But it is of utmost importance for you to draw up a file on what you have witnessed at the uprising over the past day. Your report will help the Prefect tremendously. I will work with you through the night to complete the report if needed. I am certain that your information will prove to be invaluable. Javert, I will say this again: words cannot express how pleased I am that you have survived –”

He stopped. Javert had gone stiff. His eyes had acquired a strange gleam as if it pained him not to rebuff the very words of praise directed at him.

“Is something the matter?” Chabouillet asked. His protégé had been behaving oddly since he returned from the barricades. He could only imagine the horror that Javert witnessed there, and, being well acquainted with the man’s solitary lifestyle, knew that he must have been keeping everything to himself over the past day. It would explain why he so readily latched onto the missing Fauchelevent girl’s case. Work focused the mind; it was effective in casting aside inner demons.

But work could never fully exorcise horrors and demons. He had seen too many of his men succumbing to insanity and hysteria after enduring a particularly harrowing ordeal. And now this was happening to Javert. Javert, who was so uncompromising, so utterly unbendable. If there ever was a crack to his mind, to his spirit—or heaven forbid, to his inviolable morality—Chabouillet knew with absolute certainty that this man would break beyond repair.

Javert looked as if he was readying himself for an unsavory task, his lips pressed into a straight line and pushed up against his nose. His thick whiskers, which were generally effective in shielding his emotions, did not hide his consternation.

Chabouillet returned to his chair. This could very well turn into a laborsome discourse.

“Speak your mind,” he said, as gently as he could in his role as Javert’s superior. In times like these, he often wished that propriety would allow him to play the sympathetic mentor.

He did not think it was possible, but Javert stiffened further.

“Monsieur le Secrétaire, I wish to report a grave error that likely has caused the unnecessary perishing of many lives.”

He waited for Javert to continue.

“I have committed the grave error, Monsieur. When I infiltrated the barricades, I took the assignment with the understanding that I would report back to the Prefecture as soon as I learn of the rebels’ plan of attack. But as you can see, I did not. I have failed in this most important task. The barricades at the Rue de la Chanvrerie was the burial ground for all the revolutionaries and countless National Guards. Had I been able to relay to you and to Monsieur le Préfet the schoolboys’ number and positions, their supply of weapons and firearms, the planned hours of attack, and the vulnerable fronts among the National Guards’ lineup, I know beyond doubt that so many would not have perished. So you see, I have failed to perform my first duty as a police officer, Monsieur—I failed to protect France’s citizens. And I have failed to apprehend the rebels, alive, to answer to the law.”

With each passing word, Chabouillet felt more dumbfounded, and his mien grew more incredulous. He had always known Javert to be a man of utmost integrity. It was both his greatest virtue and fault. When Chabouillet had given the permission to send Javert to the barricades as a spy, he had given the order as if signing Javert’s death warrant, so sure was he that the inspector would refuse to utter even the smallest lie and would be found out. But there was no other way; none of the other officers had volunteered.

Later, he had discovered that Javert had taken a gun but none of the accompanying ammunition.

He had considered Javert lost to him, to the Prefecture. So when he saw Javert walk in tonight, the combination of thrill and relief that burst in Chabouillet’s chest was, if not quite proper a comparison to the rejoicing felt by the father espying his prodigal son returning home from afar, then certainly no less intense a joy as the woman who swept her whole house to find again her precious lost coin.

This found-again inspector was now assuming the roles of his own accuser, judge, and executioner. If the circumstances were not so serious, Chabouillet would laugh at the absurdity of it.

“Monsieur le Secrétaire,” Javert continued when he made no reply, “after we rescue M. Fauchelevent’s daughter and capture Thénardier and his men, I intend to submit my resignation.”

“Javert, you cannot be serious!” Chabouillet exclaimed.

“I have dishonored the uniform, Monsieur. Do you not see it? I failed. I was exposed as a spy. I did not return.”

“But you could not return. You were unable to. Those were your words.”

A shadow passed the inspector’s face, and Chabouillet wondered what Javert had suffered under the revolutionaries.

“I was captured, yes. That too was my failing.”

“Javert –”

“I would have been executed. I should have! If it were left to me, Monsieur, I would have allowed myself to be killed. I would rather have died irreproachable –”

“Javert!”

Ever the obedient subordinate, the inspector fell silent.

“I will not hear any more of it. You have risked your very life for the law. You deserve a commendation, not condemnation. I do not accept your resignation and you will speak no more of it. This is an order. Inspector, are we clear?”

Javert looked mutinous, and Chabouillet briefly wondered whether a man so set on resigning would care if he were about to disobey a direct order. But the inspector remained silent. As the uneasy moment lengthened, something which resembled determination returned to those grey eyes. With what appeared to have taken all of his remaining strength, Javert nodded.

“Understood, Monsieur.”

“Javert,” Chabouillet called, just as the inspector was about to turn to exit. He waited until Javert met his eyes. “I mean what I said. You are not merely a faceless employ under the Prefecture, but a respected member of the police force, a valued colleague. If you leave the police, there can be no one to replace you. Now,” he said, signifying the end to their unpleasant conversation, “let us go catch ourselves the Patron-Minette, shall we?”


	10. In Which Coffee Masked a Multitude of Hysteria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jean Valjean spends a night at the Prefecture as a free man.

Jean Valjean stared at the rectangle of light lengthening on the floor, growing brighter. He lifted his eyes toward the window. Day was here.

Over the past hours, even the most tenacious officers had, one by one, returned home. Marcel departed around midnight, right after some meeting he was pulled into, and Georges, bless his soul, lasted another hour. By the arrival of first light, this particular wing of the Prefecture was deserted save for the Secrétaire, Javert, and himself.

If he had held false assumptions of Javert over the years, then his impression of the police had been equally erroneous. In a handful of hours, Valjean had remained in the presence of more policemen than he could recall, even when he was arrested the very first time for stealing a loaf of bread. The Prefecture operated according to a strict hierarchy—he had met gendarmes, sergeants, inspectors, a commissaire, and the Secrétaire himself. But across the ranks there was an air of camaraderie, overworked colleagues banded together after the revolution to bring what order they could to the city. Even Javert, who did not invite himself into his peers’ conversations, was obviously considered a part of this fraternity. No fewer than five officers had offered him coffee throughout the night (all of which he had accepted, to Valjean’s surprise and amusement).

Javert took his coffee black.

He returned his gaze to the mug of coffee in his hands—with milk and sugar—and allowed a sense of astonishment to wash over him. Having neither eaten nor slept since he left Rue de l’Homme Armé, he could easily relegate the entirety of the past day to hallucination borne out of weariness. That he was still a free man in the proximity of Javert should already be proof enough that he had lost his mind. Javert—offering him coffee! He had stared at the hand the first time as if the mug would change from ceramic to metal and flatten into a hollow ring ready to bite into his wrist. When Javert then misunderstood and proceeded to fix his coffee for him, adding sugar and asking him how much milk he wanted, Jean Valjean had to fight back the urge to raise a hand to his forehead, so certain was he that he was trapped in a fevered dream with a lack of a better explanation for everything happening around him.

But even in his most distorted dream world there would never be a Cosette in danger. This was not a dream. He was in a nightmare, the sort that visited him frequently after he was released from Toulon, his body paralyzed, his mind screaming in vain, unable to drag his consciousness back into light and life.

Sometimes, he would dream himself to have struggled free, only to realize he was still trapped in the dream. Jean Valjean did not know how to wake up from this dream, how to escape from this world where he was honored as M. Fauchelevent and promised help and support from the police. _Send me back to Toulon now_ , he almost said, _back to where I belong_. Convicts belonged in the bagne. Inspectors belonged in the judgment seat. And Cosette, she belonged in a world of innocent joy, with her Marius, happily ever after.

He would beg heaven for cold manacles instead of warm coffee, if it would give him Cosette back.

Throughout the night, the police made their plans around him, conversing in words that sounded like code and assigning tasks that carried little meaning to his ears. He felt out of place; perhaps he should not have insisted to have come after all. But each time the thought crossed his mind, Javert would refill his coffee or sit by his side as if he was needed here, needed somehow to offer the inspector support. Javert hadn’t slept since before he infiltrated the barricades, Valjean realized, and he must be holding onto the tenuous impossibility of a convict’s presence in the Prefecture to convince himself that this was real, because any dream world of Javert’s would doubtless consist of Jean Valjean recaptured and condemned to the galleys.

Gendarmes were starting to fill the Prefecture, ready to begin a new day’s work. Javert and the Secrétaire finally put away their maps and papers as if having reached a conclusion.

Belatedly, Valjean realized the Secrétaire was calling his name and gesturing toward his office. He rose from his chair and followed Javert inside.

“Thank you for remaining here through the night, Monsieur Fauchelevent,” the Secrétaire said as he nodded in thanks. He pointed to a chair, but Valjean chose to stand. It felt improper to take the offered seat when Javert was standing before his patron, even less so with his heightened awareness of just who he still was in the eyes of the law. He did not know what to do with his hands, so he took off his hat and hoped the twisting and pulling wouldn’t be too obvious a sign of nervousness.

The Secrétaire turned to Javert. “The inspector and I have determined several courses of action. Let’s review, Javert, shall we?”

Javert turned toward him. For a moment, Valjean thought they were transported back to Montreuil-sur-Mer, the chief inspector readying himself to deliver his report to the mayor. Javert cast him a small smile, the kind that seemed to convey a memory, and he wondered if Javert had also thought the same.

The moment was broken when the inspector cleared his throat. “We have ascertained that Thénardier and his gang are no longer working in one accord. The inner dissention is good for us, but this means we now have two operations, one to rescue Mademoiselle Cosette and the other to take down the Patron-Minette with the understanding that the gang will likely disperse and become harder to capture should any of them escape. We must have impeccable timing.

“We expect the gang to request you to meet them at one of several deserted buildings that the Patron-Minette has been using as their above-ground operating sites. The date and time of the location will depend on when the next ship to America departs. Thénardier will want to take the first available ship, not only to seize the opportunity to flee sooner, but also to avoid his gang questioning any delay in demanding a ransom for your daughter right away.” He added, to Valjean alone, “The Prefecture has been tracking the group’s criminal activities. We have identified these sites several months ago. While they mainly keep to the sewers, the revolution has sealed off many of their usual waterways with more patrolling in all areas. They will not be underground.”

Javert paused to give time for him to voice any questions. He had none. “As for Thénardier, he will most likely pay a visit to the docks today, to prepare for his overseas journey.”

“The docks!” Valjean exclaimed. “I can search the docks for information about when the next cross-Atlantic ship is scheduled to depart. I am experienced with gathering information from dock workers. Oh! Pardon my outburst, Monsieur le Secrétaire, I do not intend to interfere –”

“You were right,” the Secrétaire laughed, addressing Javert, “that Monsieur Fauchelevent would want to offer his assistance.” He turned to Valjean. “There is no need to apologize. It is natural for a parent to want to search for his daughter. Javert has already informed me that you may be most suitable to inquire among the dock workers. Most of them will refuse to have dealings with the police. But they will speak with you.

“Good, good. It is decided then. Marcel and Georges will go with Monsieur to the docks. They will offer assistance but I will instruct them not to converse directly with anyone at the docks.

“Of course, you are not to engage with Thénardier, Monsieur Fauchelevent. Should you cross paths with him, the gendarmes will know to intervene and call for reinforcements.”

Before Valjean could process the absurdity of having gendarmes tasked to assist him with police work, Javert cut in, as if knowing that too long a silence would betray both Valjean’s identity and their past. “The Secrétaire and I will search the Patron-Minette’s operating sites—or site, if the ransom note arrives for you today and we know which location they will have chosen. We will go in plain clothes, naturally, so as to not rouse suspicion from gamins and others who may have dealings with the gang. Our purpose is to arrive before the appointed meeting time and apprehend both Montparnasse and Gueulemer prior to any encounter with Thénardier. And should Cosette be under their supervision when we discover them, we will be able to rescue her as well.”

This part of the action was clear and needed no further explanation. The Secrétaire brought his hands together in a clap. “We are settled. Monsieur Fauchelevent, do not be anxious. Your daughter will return safely to your home by tonight.” He rose from his seat. “I believe Georges and Marcel have just reported to work. I shall go fetch them. The docks are busy early in the day, Monsieur. If you have no objection, it is best to head there forthwith.”

Valjean nodded. That was his intention as well.

Just as the Secrétaire was about to open the door, however, he turned to Javert. “And you, Inspector, our work shall not begin until tonight, for the group that calls itself 'daylight' does not prowl about while the sun is out. My order for you is to go home and sleep.”

Javert protested, “But Monsieur –”

“Not another word. When was the last time you rested? Have you stopped working since you went to the barricades?”

Javert was silent. Valjean thought he saw the hint of a smile playing on the Secrétaire’s lips. It appeared that M. Madeleine was not the only one who had learned to use the inspector’s honesty against him to compel him to obey some unsavory directives.

Javert looked haggard all of a sudden, as if Chabouillet’s words had spoken his exhaustion into existence, drawing it out from deep within weary bones to cover every inch of Javert’s exterior. He must have felt the same weariness too, for he made no further attempt to argue, but dipped his head in a silent bow as the Secrétaire pulled the door open and walked out without giving either of them another glance, as if the matter was settled.

Valjean reached into his pocket when the Secrétaire was well out of hearing range. He extended his hand to Javert. “Here, take this. It is the key to the house at Rue Plumet. Take my bed. Get some rest. No one is there. You will not be disturbed.”

Javert stared at the proffered key as if it was molten coal. “I will not!”

“And what do you intend to do between now and dusk? Do not say you will do work. I was with you the entire night. You drank nearly eight cups of coffee. You need sleep.”

Javert bristled. “I will go to my own lodgings.”

“Yes, and break into your own home like a common thief?” Javert looked as if he had been hurled with the worst insult, and Valjean couldn’t hold back the barest twisting of his lips. He was even less successful in hiding the amusement from his eyes, if the glare that was now sent his way was anything to go by. He had just made himself Javert’s equal, likening him to a criminal! It was a wonder hands weren’t stretched out attempting to choke him into taking back the words. Clearly, Javert was too exhausted to act on his disgust.

Putting on his sensible voice, Valjean asked, “Where are your keys?”

“That is none of your –”

“Where are they? Show me.”

Angry eyes flashed at him. He thought he heard a growl coming deep from Javert’s throat.

“They were lost. At the barricades,” Javert eventually said, admitting defeat.

He extended his hand further.

“Take them, Javert.” He kept his voice soft. “In exchange, I promise you I will join you after my visit to the docks. Short of seeing Cosette there within my grasp, I will not do anything rash.”

Javert laughed. It was _that_ laugh, the one he had only heard directed at him, when those grey eyes beheld nothing but the convict in contempt. Perhaps—he noticed the flash of wildness the inspector couldn’t hide, so exhausted he was from two days of staying awake—it had also become a laugh directed at Javert’s own tortured soul.

“Jean Valjean, forever offering kindness,” Javert muttered. There was an edge of hysteria coloring his voice. “Did I ever tell you how annoying you are? You annoy me.”

He bit back a smile. “Yes, I know. I beg you, then, let me be annoying one more time,” he said, forcing his keys into Javert’s greatcoat. As an afterthought, he also deposited two gold Napoleons. “Take a fiacre. You are in no condition to walk,” he said. Javert glared, but did not resist. He noticed the inspector’s eyes had gone dull. “When you reach the house, go straight to sleep. Please. You need it. After you wake, you will find extra sets of clothing in the armoire. Cosette and I had moved in haste and did not take too many of our possessions with us. The clothes will not fit you properly, but they should suffice as your plain clothes.”

Javert waved a hand. “Yes, yes, Saint Valjean,” came the reply, and in hope for Javert’s compliance, he chose not to remark on that particular choice of a title.

They fell silent, staring at each other with hazy eyes, both too weary to focus their minds on anything. Before long, Chabouillet returned with Georges and Marcel. The Secrétaire looked first at the unusually subdued Javert, then at him, a curious expression on his face. “You are ready?” he asked. Valjean nodded. He was ready. For Cosette, he would always be ready.

He followed the gendarmes out of the office, who in turn were trailing behind Javert.

“A word please, Monsieur Fauchelevent,” the Secrétaire called.

Valjean’s heart jumped to his throat. He turned around, in time to see the Secrétaire directing a silent order to someone behind him, forbidding that person to interfere. Javert, he thought, and panic began to spread in him. It had not occurred to him how much he had taken Javert’s presence for granted. He had not doubted that the inspector would protect him from others in the police.

But this was Javert’s superior, the one to whom he owed his very career with the Paris police. Taking his hat with one hand, Valjean forced himself to remain calm. He turned his head to catch Javert’s eyes and hoped the pull of his facial muscles managed something close enough to a reassuring smile. _I will be okay_ , he willed Javert to hear before he turned around to face the Secrétaire, before Javert could notice the lie. He stood still for several long seconds. Eventually, he heard reluctant footfalls behind him. Javert had left him to defend for himself.

He tried to imitate one of Javert’s bows. “Monsieur le Secrétaire?”

Chabouillet observed him some more, and Valjean dared not move. He felt like a zoo animal thrown into the wrong cage with a lion—there was nowhere to turn.

“Thank you.”

He blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Thank you. For saving Javert from the barricades. It was you, wasn’t it?”

“How…”

“I have been with the police for decades. I have my ways. He mentioned being captured. There must be a rescuer in order for him to become un-captured. You will forgive me, Monsieur, for probing into your background.”

Valjean could barely hold back a gasp. Was this his moment of doom at last?

“Ultime Fauchelevent, is it? You are a volunteer with the National Guards, with many years of service behind you. Doubtless you were stationed at the same barricade where Javert was captured yesterday.” Chabouillet pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose with a finger. “Javert is a proud man, but honest to a fault. In all my years, I have never seen him bring anyone into the Prefecture. He respects you, Monsieur, it is abundantly evident to me.”

“He is an honorable man.”

“As are you, Monsieur.”

The Secrétaire was looking at him as if he could penetrate all of his layers and see into the convict within. Perhaps he was imagining this conversation. For Valjean, too, was now nearing a full day without rest, and coffee seemed to have further addled his mind rather than cleared it. Yes, he must be delusional. For he was returning the Secrétaire’s gaze without fear—steady yet respectful—and a convict would never raise his eyes to an authority who could endanger his freedom.

“Thank you, for speaking sense into Javert. He shouldn’t be alone, particularly when he has so recently endured horror at the hands of the revolutionaries.”

Valjean shook his head. “I’m afraid I did not succeed. The inspector is very keen on maintaining his solitary lifestyle.”

Chabouillet laughed then, a shared moment of understanding, of mutual commiseration. “That you are right. No one can persuade him! Do not worry, Monsieur Fauchelevent. For my part, I shall endeavor not to leave Javert without support this evening. But I must now take leave, for I too intend to get several hours of rest before tonight’s raid. The Prefect is arriving and I shall be relieved soon.” He tilted his head toward the door. “I believe you also should be on your way? God speed, Monsieur.”

Valjean said nothing—could say nothing to make sense of the world becoming incomprehensible around him. And so he bowed a final time and, finding Georges and Marcel already prepared to depart, quickly exited the Prefecture with them.

-

Javert stood by the entrance of the Prefecture, hiding himself in the shadowed part of the building’s exterior where one wing of the building extended further out than another. He did not move until he saw Valjean depart with the two gendarmes, and that there was neither chain nor cuff on his person, no police carriage waiting outside the door ready to take the convict away from the false life he had established for himself.

Slowly, he allowed his body to relax.

He was ready to draw his pistol—against Monsieur le Secrétaire!—had Valjean not sent him that reassuring smile and Chabouillet appeared at that moment more like his patron than a fierce police officer about to pronounce judgment on a fugitive of the law. He knew, as certain as the sun was now shining in the sky, that had he pointed his pistol at Chabouillet, it would not have been done out of a moment of insanity. In the depths of his heart, Javert knew that he would choose to protect Valjean over and over. The criminal used to be his to capture. Now, the good man was his to protect, even if it would cost him his career, his reputation, or his very life.

His clothes felt damp. He had not realized that he was drenched with sweat.

With his mind racing in countless opposing directions, Javert chose to walk. Rue Plumet was not far away, about an hour of strolling. The day was still early, and he could think of numerous better ways to spend Valjean’s money than to waste it on a cab. He walked down the steps of the Prefecture, heading southward, facing a different side of the Seine that now greeted him under the gleaming sun: same river, different banks.

As he crossed the river, the waters called to him again, roaring in his ears. There was a lure that he almost could not resist. _Fall_ , it simply commanded, offering no illusion of paradise or redemption.

But this time, his heart wasn’t tempted, for he now understood God’s ultimate task assigned to him: he was duty-bound to Valjean, forever. And he was glad to perform this task until he breathed his last breath. He had not realized what an honor it was to have once served M. Madeleine as mayor. But now he knew, and Javert was never a man to make the same mistake twice.

The water was clear under the sun, unlike the dark void that it was the night prior. It was like the outward manifestation of his soul—blackened and wretched two nights ago, but now he was cleansed and given a new chance to live, if only to render service to the man he had wronged all his life.

Javert continued walking, landing on the other side of the river and toward Valjean’s home, on firm ground and away from the treacherous currents.

If God was a merciful God, then may he show favor to Valjean. May he grant him love and joy and the return of his daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am anticipating this story to be about 15 chapters long, give or take one chapter in either direction. I am, of course, operating with the assumption that the characters will cooperate ;-)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


	11. In Which the Note Arrived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Valjean and Javert finally receive what they have been waiting for, but more actions must be taken before proceeding with Thénardier's demands.

Before Jean Valjean returned to his house at the Rue Plumet, he stopped by the hospital.

“Mademoiselle Musichetta, how are you feeling today?”

The first thing he saw was her smile, twin dimples beaming at him as her countenance lit up a radiant joy. In the sunlight, Musichetta’s face, though pale, had acquired a healthier glow. The bruise on her left cheekbone had darkened in color, and Valjean wondered briefly how she would react if she were to catch herself in a mirror. Perception could be a dangerous thing. What would a young lady of her beauty think, if instead of the promise of health that he was seeing underneath the bruise, she could see nothing but the outward signs of swollen black and blue? _It’s a sign of healing_ , he remembered having to comfort a devastated Cosette once, many years ago, _just like how we too must bare our soul’s ugliness to God before he can cleanse us_.

Cosette hadn’t truly understood him then, those days of fervent prayer when he had implored God to make the lingering effect of her fall fade away so Cosette would stop believing herself to be ugly. Nor—Valjean now knew—did he fully understand her now. _What made you want to go away?_ he had asked the specter of Cosette in his mind over and over. _What can Marius give you that I cannot?_ The Cosette in his mind never answered, only frowned. And his questions would become more and more desperate until it inevitably tugged at his deepest wound: _What have I done wrong?_

Seeing Musichetta’s smile, Jean Valjean felt guilty for coming here to ask her questions, for using her. But he wasn’t able to stay his legs from coming here. As soon as he bade the gendarmes farewell after visiting the docks, the singular purpose of speaking with Musichetta had drawn him like pilgrim pulled toward a sacred shrine that promised secret knowledge—a father’s search for his daughter, a quest to learn about who Cosette truly was.

Nonetheless, his concern over Musichetta was genuine. He sank into the chair next to her, then extended a hand to help her sit up. The hand that gripped his was steady and sure. Valjean smiled. Musichetta would soon be able to leave here on her own.

“Monsieur Fauchelevent! Any news of Cosette?”

“Not yet. The inspector is working hard to bring her home,” he said gently. “I have full confidence in Javert. He is the best inspector I know. I am fortunate that he has taken on my case. He was under no obligation to do so.” He paused to allow a sense of gratefulness to wash over him. He would never be able to thank Javert enough.

A glance at Musichetta listening to him with rapt attention brought him back to the hospital. “Ah, but let us not dwell any more on what cannot be known. Tell me, are you being well cared for here?”

“Too well cared for!” Musichetta laughed, her voice like the sound of bells, a clear alto to Cosette’s melodious higher voice. The voice proceeded to list every duty the nurses must perform every hour to ensure the well being of a patient under police protection. The sound was comforting, like the filling out of a space that was otherwise too dull, too hollow. Musichetta was now laughing at something that she was recounting, and Valjean found himself mirroring a smile not at the young girl in front of her, but at the young girl in his mind. Cosette used to laugh like this. She used to tell him about her day and share whimsical thoughts of talking animals and beautiful princesses. He would ask her to describe the traits of each of the animals. He would then add wings and horns to the usual four legs and a tail as he carved new toys for Cosette’s already extensive collection of wooden creatures. This was the proper order of things, Valjean pondered as he trailed his eyes after Musichetta’s gesturing arms, for young girls to be joyous, just as the morning sky should be a clear, cloudless blue.

Even her grief, the grief of a young girl, had lessened. Against all odds, a tender shoot had broken through the winter soil of Musichetta’s resilient heart. There would be challenges ahead, yes, but this new growth that was so evident in her shining eyes brought with it the reassurance that past love and memories, thought to have turned into ashes that smothered a young life, had in truth turned into the very fertile soil that now fueled the sproutling’s growth—the weaving of tragic losses into hope for a future.

Jean Valjean suddenly felt old, like a brown leave gone fragile under the harsh winter wind. If he truly had lost Cosette, his sun and warmth, then he knew there would be no new shoot springing from his heart, no seed buried under winter’s snow waiting for rebirth.

Was this the true extent of his sins, many years ago, when he had failed to notice the struggles of a young mother under his employ? Surely if Fantine had been allowed to earn enough money to retrieve Cosette from the Thénardiers, to raise that precious young girl by her side, then she would not have been captured by one of Paris’s most notorious gangs?

His heart seized, the spasms of an old heart who learned too late to love. _Oh God, take me, not Cosette, please! Please, I’d do anything, even to never see her again, if she can return safely to Marius._

Warmth and softness covered one of his hands, and Jean Valjean looked down. Musichetta had extended a hesitant arm. She had noticed his sorrow.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, shaking his head. It did nothing to shake away his melancholy. “I have allowed my mind to wander. My deepest apologies.”

Musichetta smiled at him as if he had just apologized for doing something good, her eyes scoffing him for saying nonsensible words but gentle in their reassurance that his presence alone was appreciated. Valjean supposed his being here was already more than what she had expected. This he understood well. During his few stays at the bagne’s infirmary when he had been injured, Valjean the Prisoner never expected any company.

He returned her smile. “I come here to thank you. Here –” He reached into his coat and produced a rosary. “For you. I’m afraid I do not know what young ladies like you favor these days, despite having a daughter of my own. But I hope God will continue to protect you.”

Musichetta took the rosary with cupped hands, reverently, as if taking Holy Communion. Valjean did not miss the significance of this moment, of seeking out a young lady he would never have the occasion to meet had it not been for the convergence of their paths brought together by the uprising. Perhaps their experiences over the past day had joined them together, had initiated a holy rite without either of them realizing it. Valjean looked at the somber walls of the hospital and turned them in his mind into stone arches and painted windows. The Church bound people together, did it not, welcoming widows and orphans as sisters and brothers joined under Christ, transforming strangers into family?

They were two people who had lost loved ones in the past day. Here, in the giving and receiving of a rosary, they were family.

Family shared secrets and bore one another’s burdens.

“Mademoiselle, if you would forgive me… I confess I have come here for a selfish reason. Please, tell me: Cosette, what is she like?”

“Monsieur, you know her more than you think you do,” Musichetta said solemnly, understanding his deeper question. Not for the first time, Valjean wondered at the maturity of this girl who appeared so young. It was as if she had gained wisdom through the self-made lifestyle and worldly experiences she had accumulated for herself, learning through life where Cosette had known nothing but innocence and protection.

Musichetta continued, “I have met both of you only one day ago and can already see the similarities. You are both kind, generous, and have a way of setting people at ease.” She cocked her head to one side as if seeing something in her mind, and Valjean could picture two young ladies first getting acquainted and then conversing in a garden. Which dress did Cosette wear when she went to the Rue Plumet? Was it her favorite blue dress, or the yellow dress that she had been waiting for the proper start of summer before donning?

“You both love so, so deeply,” Musichetta concluded, and he noticed an almost pained gleam in her eyes, all traces of the earlier smile gone. “She would go to the ends of the earth for Marius, she was ready yesterday morning to become his nursemaid until he has recovered from what injuries he may have suffered. And you, Monsieur, your love for her must be like the warmest sunshine, for in order to know how to give love, she must have already received it.

“I saw similarities between us right away, Cosette and me. We are both educated and share a common love for literature, though she favors novels and romances while I prefer poetry. She likes music, and I like art. And although she isn’t yet familiar with Paris’s social circles or has begun to frequent _salon_ gatherings, she carries herself with a grace that has taken me years to develop. We… I can imagine us becoming friends. Perhaps we would have one day, if recent events had turned out differently…

“Ah, but I am getting distracted. What I mean to say is this, Monsieur: even though I feel a ready kinship toward Cosette from the very beginning, I also noticed how different she is from me. She carries herself as someone who is absolutely secure in having her father’s love and acceptance, and that is something that no amount of social training can produce. She left you a note, did she not?”

Valjean nodded.

“Ah, so you found it. That’s good. She was fretting that you would worry, since she was away for longer than planned. She was worried for Marius too. In the end, she had to choose between going with me to search for Marius or returning home.”

“And she chose Marius,” Valjean said quietly. It should not pain him so to speak what he already knew. But emotions did not obey reason, and he found himself asking once again what he had done wrong, what more he should have done to let Cosette know that he would give her the entire world if she would only ask.

Musichetta’s hand gave his a squeeze as her eyes met his. There was uncertainty there, a flash of fear for daring to be so bold. He lifted his other hand to clasp it over hers, reassuring her that the gesture was appreciated.

“It is no matter. I should not have…”

“But, Monsieur, do you not see? She chose Marius because she could, because while she may lose him to death or injury, she knows she will always have you.”

“But –”

“You weren’t a choice, Monsieur, you never were. She will always go home and everything will always be well. She will always love you because you will do the same. I am certain of this.”

It was when Musichetta turned her eyes away that Valjean realized her hand was no longer in his. They had returned to worrying at the bedsheets just as she had begun chewing on her lower lip. Head lowered like this, she resembled a little girl, lost and vulnerable, all traces of vivacity gone.

“I know this because I don’t have it,” came a whisper after a long moment, “never knew this kind of love. She is lucky to have you, Monsieur. And believe me, please… Cosette, she knows this.”

A nurse came in to take her temperature and to check on her bruises. She left a bowl of soup and a loaf of bread by the bedside. A small piece of fruit sat on the edge of the food tray. There was a square of napkin, but no utensils.

“You are welcome,” he said after the nurse finished her tasks, breaking the silence, “after all this, if you so desire, that is, to stay with us. If you need a place to settle to sort out what lies ahead.”

He tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in the soup, and extended it to Musichetta. She stared at it for several long seconds, considering more than just the food in front of her, before taking it from his hand.

He did the same until she finished both bread and soup, the giving and receiving of more than mere physical nourishment.

“I’d like that,” Musichetta said into her lap, and Valjean wondered if he had imagined her words. “I hope you’ll find her soon.”

“Thank you.”

When he stepped outside of the hospital, Valjean’s heart felt full. _Cosette loves me!_ The thought chased his doubts away. Musichetta’s words echoed in his ears: _She will always go home and everything will always be well_.

He lifted his face toward heaven.

 _Let it be so_ , he prayed. _Please, let it be so_.

-

“What took you so long?” Javert asked when Valjean entered the house at 55 Rue Plumet, well into the afternoon and well after Javert had taken the liberty to go into the garden to pluck off some peaches and plums from the row of perfectly pruned fruit trees that lined the far wall inside the gate. They were the sweetest fruits he had ever tasted.

“Javert, shouldn’t you be –”

“It has been five hours. If I sleep any more, it would be a full night’s rest and not a short repose.”

“But you did sleep,” Valjean asked, “did you?”

“Yes, I did. And while your concern is touching, this should not have been the first question on your mind.” He added: “And you haven’t answered my question.”

Valjean walked toward the sitting room, taking the chair next to Javert, the same one he sat in yesterday. Reaching into his coat’s inner pocket, he took out a carefully wrapped packet and set it on the table.

“After visiting the docks, I stopped by the hospital to check on Mademoiselle Musichetta,” he said. “Then I went to the apartment at Rue de l’Homme Armé to get this.”

Javert followed Valjean’s gaze to the packet. The content was rectangular, in the shape of a book. It was carefully wrapped with sturdy parchment that prevented any ripping and which could withstand sustained water damage. Javert had always known Valjean to have taken his full wealth with him on the run. Now, he saw with his own eyes the very fortune that M. Madeleine had made.

“How much?” he asked. What was the price of a daughter to a father?

“Six hundred thousand francs, give and take ten or twenty thousand that I have spent over the years.”

“You still have six hundred thousand francs? Why then do you insist on living like a pauper?” Javert muttered, more to himself than to demand an answer from the incomprehensible man next to him. Valjean had not spent much of his savings, if the number that M. Lafitte the banker quoted to him was accurate. Javert could never forget that day: _Jean Valjean, imposter mayor, escaping from the town’s prison and taking his entire ill-gotten fortune with him._

And now the stack of bank notes sat, preserved over the years, on an old table in a house devoid of any furniture except what was absolutely necessary.

He could not bring himself to feel surprised. The mayor in his memory lived modestly in a humble house, and a gardener who never set foot outside of the convent would not have the occasion to spend money. In fact, the only sign of extravagance that Javert had espied was Valjean’s utter devotion to his daughter, lavishing her with dresses, accessories, and closets full of trinkets and material possessions that Javert had come across while searching for signs of Cosette’s whereabouts yesterday.

Jean Valjean led a simple life in a shed at the Rue Plumet and slept on a straw mattress without the warmth of fire. His treasure had never been money, but God and a beloved young girl.

And freedom.

Javert understood it now, the worthlessness of six hundred thousand francs in comparison to spending quiet days under the sun and in the garden. Valjean did not dispense alms in an attempt to ease his guilty conscience. He did it optimistically, and perhaps a bit naively, to grant happiness to those he helped, if only for a warm meal or a new set of clothing.

And to gift Valjean with happy days filled with the true treasures of his heart, Javert must first bring him pain, to show him the unwanted note that had arrived for him while he was away.

“You should have asked about this,” he said, taking out a soiled piece of paper from his pocket—this letter had appeared not on the clean spot but on a mossy ledge of the gate, so it was not delivered by Azelma—and placed it on top of the money. The gesture was clear: this was the ransom note they had been waiting for.

Javert heard a sharp intake of breath.

“Thénardier?” Valjean asked.

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Not nearly as much as you have taken out. Thirty thousand. Doubtless the fool already believes it to be an astronomical sum.” And it was, were Javert not a witness to the prosperity of Montreuil-sur-Mer under the flourishing of M. Madeleine’s factory and the millions of francs invested into starting schools and hospitals.

A stray thought crossed his mind.

“What will you do with the money, after this? Will you start a school?”

Valjean looked at him oddly. It took him several seconds to realize that he had brought up the man’s future without linking it to imprisonment. He was then struck by the unpleasant sensation of something twisting at his heart. To Valjean, his freedom would always be tenuous, never fully guaranteed. His mind may have believed Javert’s words, but his heart would never be free from a convict’s paranoia.

Javert felt the urge to apologize, but he thought that would only make matters worse.

“I had intended the money as Cosette’s dowry,” Valjean answered after a pause. So he had indeed given thought to the matter of his wealth.

“She will be marrying a baron with an aristocrat steeped in old money for a grandfather. Do not throw money at where it is not needed. And before you ask, yes, I spent some time last night looking into the boy’s background. He was affiliated with the insurgents, after all. And no, I did not list him or any of his dead friends by name in my report.” Javert cast a glance at the coat stand by the door, where a patched up yellow jacket was hung next to a finer outer coat that M. Fauchelevent would don when he needed to appear a gentleman. “And do not think that you will live long enough to give away six hundred thousand francs sou by sou, even if you never sleep again and give alms continuously.”

He thought he heard a sound of amusement, but it may have been his imagination. For when Valjean spoke again, his tone was serious: “Javert, I never believed I would have the opportunity to spend the money. To live a lavish lifestyle without having ties to Paris’s aristocracy… it would have attracted attention.”

“Fair enough,” Javert admitted grudgingly. Though as a hunted criminal or not, he could not conceive of Jean Valjean spending his wealth on frivolity. He turned toward Valjean. The man was staring at a blank spot on the floor. There was something like regret in those eyes, and he wondered if Valjean was thinking what he was thinking: that if someone had, nearly forty years ago, given a young man in Faverolles five sous to purchase bread for his family, the Jean Valjean of today would gladly repay the act of charity with all six hundred thousand francs now under his name.

They were both averting the matter at hand. “The note,” he said, drawing up Valjean’s eyes. “It provided a location and a time, but the idiot Thénardier did not provide a date.”

“When I inquired of the dock workers this morning, I was informed that the next ship to America departs tomorrow. Georges and Marcel are to relay this information to the Secrétaire.”

So Thénardier intended to take the money and flee right away.

“Tonight then,” Javert concluded, and made a satisfied noise for having guessed correctly. Both he and Chabouillet were right. The Patron-Minette would be called upon to aide Thénardier tonight. And when tomorrow arrived, Montparnasse and Gueulemer would find both Thénardier and their promised money gone. “He is demanding the exchange of thirty thousand francs for Cosette at an abandoned warehouse at the Rue des Saints-Pères, at midnight. It is one of the locations the Prefecture has been observing the gang’s activities. This note is genuine.”

When no reply came after a drawn-out silence, Javert lifted his head. What he saw struck him frozen.

Valjean’s mouth had set into a line, his eyes brewing a quiet fury. The room suddenly felt too small, the air too stale, like the very breath of life had been squeezed out by Valjean’s hands that were now curled into two tight fists. For the first time in a long while, Javert thought he caught a glimpse of the hate-filled creature in Toulon again. He was no longer sitting next to a man whose heart was governed by God’s command to love one’s enemies. No, Javert was sitting within striking distance from a convict of old who cared nothing for turning the other cheek. This was, he realized, the first time since Montreuil that Jean Valjean was refusing to extend mercy. Thénardier had already been torn limb from limb in Valjean’s mind.

Javert did not dare disturb him lest he drew attention to himself. He had long suspected that despite a near-perfect level of self-restraint, Jean Valjean was capable of bursting into vengeance against those who had wronged him in the past. It would be like the rousing of a sleeping dragon by foolish treasure seekers, so terrible were the strength and rage of Jean-le-Cric in his memory. Suddenly, Javert became very aware that he too fell into that definition of someone who had deeply wronged the man. He had perhaps committed even more and greater sins against him than Thénardier. If Valjean were to turn his head around now, passing cold eyes up and down over Javert, what demands of repayment would be made of him?

“What else does the note say?” Valjean asked, and Javert realized it was always the kindness in that voice that defined Jean Valjean. He only wished it didn’t take the absence of that kindness for him to understand.

He roamed his eyes over the ransom note and repeated its content in his mind: _To the Esteemed M. Fauchelevent – I have reclaimed Cosette, who rightfully belongs to me. But if you want her back, then I demand thirty thousand francs. Come to the abandoned structure at the Rue des Saints-Pères by the quay with the money at_ _midnight_ _. – Thénardier_.

The note was unsophisticated, brutish. Thénardier was too much of a simpleton to have thought to provide a glove or handkerchief—or even a lock of hair—from Cosette as evidence of having her in his possession. And having already learned what happened to Cosette from Musichetta, Valjean knew too much to think to question the veracity of Thénardier’s claim.

“You need to reply to Thénardier, tell him no,” Javert said.

Narrowed eyes pinned Javert under an invisible weight. For several seconds, he couldn’t move, could not even breathe under the crushing glare. “What did you say?” Valjean asked in a dangerous voice. A warning.

“Your knowledge that Thénardier has Cosette, it does not come from the note.” Javert paused, swallowing, unable to continue with the sudden dryness of his throat. So this was what it felt like to be interrogated. But he knew he was in the right, so he forged on: “You shouldn’t know about what took place at the _Rive Droite_. If Thénardier knows about your past as he seems to, he would never expect you to seek out the police. Without the police, you would not have known about Mademoiselle Musichetta. And if you had not spoken with Mademoiselle Musichetta, this note would be your first learning of the workings behind Cosette’s disappearance.

“And Thénardier has written an inferior note. He makes no reference to peculiar facts about Cosette that only you would know, nor is the note accompanied by any item that you would recognize as Cosette’s possession. Write him. Tell him you will not meet him with the money until he provides you with proof that Cosette is with him and is safe.”

He waited until his words sank in, in the way that anger dulled into a hint of understanding in eyes that had gone dark. After several more seconds, Valjean nodded.

“Very well. I will reply to Thénardier.”

It wasn’t until after Valjean had removed himself from his company to compose a reply on his writing desk that Javert realized his heartbeats had eased and his muscles once again relaxed. By God’s miracles, Valjean had held onto his self-restraint and listened to the reasoning behind his suggestion; his advice was accepted.

He didn’t know why it mattered to have Valjean’s esteem of him as a competent inspector and as someone he could trust. But as he gazed at the bent back and a trembling hand laboring away to compose a reply, Javert found himself wishing that things were different, that perhaps one day he would be allowed to be here again not as Valjean’s pursuer or inspector, but simply as an old acquaintance who could talk with a good and generous man about the founding of a new school.


	12. In Which Goodness Was Contested

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As they wait for Thénardier to retrieve and respond to the note, Valjean and Javert find themselves contending with the past.

Police work required a lot of waiting, Jean Valjean came to find out, as he and Javert settled once again in their respective armchairs—the one to his left had become “Javert’s chair”—waiting for Thénardier or one of his lackeys to retrieve the note and come back with a reply.

He cast surreptitious glances at the inspector, not wanting to draw attention to his curiosity. The sleep, though brief, had done wonders for Javert. He appeared calmer, less given to bouts of melancholy, and seemed to be more focused on present matters than he did a day ago when Valjean would catch Javert’s mind drifting, his eyes turning dull and something like pain would contort his face. Dressed in his own too-wide spare clothes, Javert also looked less intimidating. Here, sitting next to Valjean, he was simply a man.

Until yesterday, Jean Valjean had only known Javert to wear four expressions: utter devotion to the law, respect for his superiors, that terrible grimace when apprehending a criminal, and contempt reserved only for him that was barely veiled under his suspicions in Montreuil-sur-Mer and openly displayed during their subsequent encounters. Javert did not have a face in Toulon; all the guards were one and the same.

He never thought he would come to know the man as more than someone to be evaded. Javert was leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed—catching a moment of peace, in his home! Even in Montreuil-sur-Mer, he had never invited the inspector into his house, so fearful of discovery was he to have refrained from such a simple act of common hospitality. A truth lodged uncomfortably upon his heart, pricked at his conscience: he had no right to accuse the prison guard of treating the convict as a subhuman; in all these years, he too had viewed Javert as less than the full person that he was.

But he could not deny the truth any longer. Underneath the severe exterior was a man. He had caught a glimpse of Javert’s soul, pained to the point of seeking death. He could no longer look at Javert and only see what he signified. _This is your brother_ , a voice that sounded suspiciously like the Bishop’s admonished him. And while this brother had the authority to send him back to prison at the raising of an arm, _he_ had no authority to deny Javert his humanity.

Javert, who took his coffee black.

“You are staring.” Valjean started, and Javert let out a snort as if he could see his shocked expression through closed eyes. “I can feel you.”

Valjean felt his face heat up. “Pardon me –”

“Stop apologizing for imaginary offenses. Speak your mind.”

Grey eyes opened when the initial pause turned into drawn-out silence. It was a strange sight; Javert appeared hesitant, almost shy, as if he had demanded more than what was proper. This sudden stiffness reminded Valjean of the way Javert used to carry himself in Montreuil-sur-Mer. The suspicion was gone. But the always-present fear of offending a superior was still there. Valjean forced his brows to relax—when had a scowl formed on his face?—and knew he didn’t succeed when he caught Javert swallowing, his throat working up and down in nervousness. He could almost hear the involuntary gulp. It was as if Javert was afraid to offend him. But why was it? Before yesterday, he’d never had any trouble telling Valjean just what a despicable criminal and fraud he believed he was. If Valjean had never been reduced to what Javert accused him of in his past vitriol, then what did the inspector have to fear now in being civil to him? Did he not know that Jean Valjean would forever be his to command, that there would never be any more secrets between them?

“I was thinking,” Valjean began slowly, then paused to consider how to proceed. He felt like a stranger greeting a dog for the first time, knees bent and hand extended, offering goodwill and careful not to startle. “I would like to get to know you better.”

He could see the moment when the words sank in and Javert went still, retreating like a threatened turtle into its shell. He held back a sigh. He had always known the inspector to be a solitary man. But he thought things were now different—they could not remain as they were after Javert confessed to the reason he wanted to quit his life. He had even allowed himself to hope. Their interactions were becoming more open. He still remembered the unconscious smile that Javert directed his way when they walked the streets of Paris together yesterday, and they could now sustain the occasional conversation without either of them running out of words to say too quickly. He thought this signified something. But he was wrong, for it was plain as the summer day that Javert was still guarded around him. There was no reason to feel disappointed, he reminded himself. He should be glad for the absence of animosity. But he was greedy and this wasn’t enough. He did not want Javert serving him with respect like the subordinate to Monsieur le Maire. That was a long time ago. And M. Madeleine never truly existed.

“There is nothing of import to know about me,” came the eventual reply.

 _No!_ His heart protested. Outwardly, he said: “I will be the judge of that,” infusing Madeleine’s tone into his voice. A test.

And like a well trained dog, Javert’s head snapped up. Though sitting, his body straightened, like a soldier reporting to his authority. Valjean choked back another sigh. So this was the true matter of things. Here was a man who could only see black and white, good and bad. Jean Valjean had been transported from “bad” to “good” since Javert was forced off the bridge. Perhaps it started even earlier, with the flick of a knife that aimed not to kill but to free. But the precise timing did not change the uncomfortable truth that Javert was as unyielding as before. If those eyes had previously held contempt, then they were now seeing Jean Valjean as if there was a halo glowing around him.

Except there was never any halo.

Wordlessly, Valjean reached for his cuffs and rolled back the sleeves of his shirt, revealing the scars on his wrists. This gesture, so simple and unconscious to thousands of men seeking reprieve from Paris’s heat, felt to him like the stripping of his outer skin. And like that very first time when he was forced to extend his arms to receive shackles of iron, his breath quickened and his heart raced on its own accord as if trying to break through the confines of his ribs. The sitting room suddenly felt too small for both he and Javert, and the convict inside him was screaming for him to run. He took a ragged breath to steady himself. No running. He would never run from Javert again.

He extended his arms, extended his scars. “Then I would like you to know me better. All of me.”

Javert’s reaction was almost violent—the twisting of his face, his hands gripping the arms of the chair—panicked. He looked as if his worst nightmare had come to life. It would be easier if there was only terror on display. But Valjean could detect despair, and he knew his gesture had plunged like a knife into the man’s new conscience and left a deep gash there. He refused to apologize. This was necessary, he reminded himself, thinking back to that day when the Bishop added to his stolen silver with two candlesticks, not dismissing his sin but making something good out of it.

He extended his arms further, slowly and steadily, palms up. He watched Javert watch his wrists. There was a flinch, the tightening of those unforgiving shoulders. He heard a choked back gasp. His eyes found Javert’s, who was refusing to meet his gaze. When his hands were mere inches away from Javert, the air seemed to have been sucked out of the room, and Jean Valjean, breath held and heartbeats pounding in his ears, felt his body beginning to heat up with panic from what this pose reminded him of—that Javert could still snatch out his manacles and arrest him.

But he wouldn’t.

Javert continued to stare as if lost in his own world, paying no heed to Valjean’s wavering composure. His gaze reminded Valjean of those worn by those mourning at the funeral house, seeing not the present but into the past, fueled by grief and regret. He wondered if the sounds and smell of Toulon had returned to Javert, if he were reliving his days with whip and cudgel in hand, standing tall over bent backs laboring away, intent on finding faults to land a blow here or to crack a whip there.

He didn’t remember if Javert had ever whipped him. If he did, he supposed it must have been well deserved.

But Javert seemed to believe he did. “I… have mistreated you,” whispered a fragile voice. A plea. A confession. A statement of fact.

Before Valjean could respond, he felt pressure on his wrists, and his heart contracted once, sending a jolt of fear down his spine. The convict in him seized; all thoughts of self-control left him. He opened his mouth, thinking to scream or to form some excuses, but no sound came out. He should pull back his arms, but he couldn’t move, had lost his mobility just as he was now lost in the darkness of the past, his present surrounding fading away from his consciousness. His heart pounded impossibly quicker against his ribcage, demanding the very same escape that his body should be seeking, before the chance was lost and he would be bound in chains and returned to the abyss.

Then he felt it again: a pressing sensation on his wrists. But instead of the cruel bite of metal, this touch was gentle, uncertain, and it took Valjean’s brains several long seconds to realize that Javert was tracing his scars with his fingertips—a swipe of a thumb over the gnarled ridges, followed by a press of his fingers further down the wrist—so light were the touches that his thick scars couldn’t feel most of them. There was no violence behind the act, only apology. Jean Valjean found his heart slowing with the methodical smoothing motion over his scars. His breaths lengthened; his throat was no longer constricted. The room returned to him.

“I am sorry,” Javert said into his hands. Valjean felt a puff of warm air against his palms, where no scar had desensitized his flesh.

He shook his head. “I did not always obey the guards.”

“Yes, but I saw injustice and yet kept silent.”

“You _saw_ injustice. You did not partake in it. That made a difference, Javert. We all noticed.”

“But – but you were a good man!”

“No,” Valjean said. There was more force in his voice than he intended, and he felt Javert flinch, the fingers that were dancing on his wrists suddenly tightening to encircle them. All at once, the sounds of crashing waves and lashes landing on flesh flooded his senses, and he was gone away again. He was no longer in Paris. He screamed, but no sound escaped. He could taste salt in the air.

It must have only been an instant, for when Valjean noticed his present surrounding returning, he saw Javert in turn flinching, understanding the moment of panic that the encircling of his wrists had induced. Valjean saw Javert’s lips move, mumbling something apologetic, and then those fingers loosened and were about to pull away –

He didn’t know why he did it, but instinct bade his own hands to reach out to halt Javert’s retreat. Like a hunter’s trap springing upon its victim, Valjean’s hands fastened onto two bony, strong wrists that tensed under his touch. He thought he heard a gasp. When he raised his eyes, he saw a mixture of surprise and terror staring back at him. But there was no disgust; Javert did not object to being assaulted by a convict.

He followed Javert’s eyes as they returned to examining their joined limbs, and when seconds that seemed to have stretched into hours passed until the tinge of red began to fade from Javert’s face, Valjean found his own wrists gripped in return.

He felt no panic this time.

The circle of their paths had closed as they sat, hands grasping hands, sensing each other’s pulses and the years that had passed between them, all brutality and missed opportunities. But now that they had come together again, there was the chance of cultivating something new, something good.

And Valjean knew that new growth could not happen under illusions.

“No,” he repeated, gentler this time, but no less fierce. He waited until Javert lifted his head to indicate that he had heard. “I have changed Javert, yes. May have even become a good man by your definition. It is by the grace of God alone. But in Toulon? No, I was not a good man then. The bagne was where I belonged, what I deserved. You and the other guards were right to keep me confined there, to punish me for each of my escape attempts. Javert, you need to understand, I was not always good, and I am far from perfect even now.”

“You became Madeleine, and he was good.”

“Madeleine was a lie.” He felt bitterness twisting at the edges of his lips. At one time, he’d believed he was living an honorable life. But those purging years at the convent had shown him the depths of his errors. When he was forced to enter into the sanctuary of God as no one but himself, Jean Valjean had realized that Madeleine was nothing but an imposter. “I am not a good man. You of all people should know this. I live everyday with the knowledge that my crime against the chimney sweep will never be repaid. The lie I lived as a false magistrate carried consequences for others. And do not deny it. I have heard about the demise of the factory and schools in that town. That wouldn’t have happened had Madeleine been real. And even now, I continue to lie, pretending to be Ultime Fauchelevent and hiding who I truly am from Cosette. I am too cowardly to right any of these wrongs. I have lived each day as the thief that you know me to be, stealing freedom and time that aren’t mine. No, Javert. Do not see me as a saint, for that is not who I am.”

He watched as his words forced through Javert’s haze of idealism, crumbling his ordered belief in absolutes. Darkened eyes stared back at him—confused, terrified. He didn’t know what felt more jarring: the lost of heat around his hands as Javert jerked away, or the sudden absence of the sense of near-friendship that he had come to enjoy from the man. Valjean pulled his arms back, staring at his own white scars. Would now be the moment of judgment for him, after all, now that Javert saw him for the criminal that he always was?

Whatever he expected from the inspector, it was not words that sounded so pained as if they were ripped out from his throat: “If even you are not good, then no one is.”

Valjean sighed. Whatever ideal Javert was measuring himself against would be unattainable for anybody. What could this merciless man know of the purchase of a soul for God? He felt powerless. It was as if he had unknowingly guided Javert to the edge of a new world where mercy was free for all to take but neglected to show him how to enter.

“You are beginning a new life,” he said gently. “It will be confusing.”

There was a long silence, and Valjean wondered what the unbendable inspector was pondering. He could almost hear Javert’s thoughts overwhelming his mind, the crashing of carefully erected walls and a light too bright and painful rummaging through deep, dark recesses of stuffed-away incongruities that Javert had until this point of his life refused to acknowledge. He looked as if he were in pain. From the way the afternoon sun was shining on him, Javert looked like a shadow illuminated by a layer of orange all around him. His eyes gleamed, dark upon dark, and Valjean hoped that his sheer presence, the support he would gladly offer for as long as needed, was enough for Javert to walk through this trial of self-realization that all men must contend with his conscience alone.

When Javert raised his head, it was as though he was seeing past him and into a bottomless chasm that had opened up around them. “I cannot live in a world of grey, Valjean. Nothing makes sense to me.”

He remembered back to a similar time, when he could no longer see the world through hatred after his encounter with the Bishop. He had wanted to hold onto the hatred. It had been familiar, easy. Hatred pitted Jean Valjean against the world and gave him people and things and oppressive systems to blame. It provided him with a twisted sort of justification to feel superior, to be king and judge of his own world. That world led only to madness and destruction, but it didn’t matter to him then, not until a better way had opened up with a saint and his candlesticks as his guiding light.

He was no saint. But at the moment, he was the only one Javert had.

“Then tell me, what makes sense to you?”

Javert was silent for some moments. Then: “Arresting you is not right.”

“That is… good.”

“And yet you are correct in saying that you still lie and live a stolen identity. But this allows you to do more good. No, you do not belong in Toulon.” There was a pause, a moment for breaths and for more thoughts to surface. “And I am not irreproachable. I have never been. But I believed it when I was a guard. I believed it when serving under Monsieur le Maire. Ha! I believed it even two days ago.”

“You are a good man.”

“Am I? Would you say that if I change my mind after all and send you away to end your life in hard labor? And why are you calling me good if you refuse to believe in your own goodness?”

“I am –”

“Imperfect. I heard you the first time, Valjean. Nor am I. Do you know how painful it is to discover that I am the same as the lowest criminal in this regard? I do not want to know what I know now. I am uncertain. Even the Law has ceased to hold the same meaning for me. What makes sense to me, you ask? It is sensible for me to serve you, to repay my debt to you. But you do not allow it. You forbid me to see you as a good man. It is you who make no sense. You truly annoy me.”

Valjean remembered he had spent long stretches of time alone after leaving the Bishop. He had prayed and talked to himself a lot—he couldn’t always distinguish between the two—for if he had kept all thoughts to himself, he would have long become insane. And so he continued to listen to Javert as he processed his thoughts aloud, speaking words that were an affront to his logic and forcing him into a world that was neither black nor white, but filled with brilliant colors. Javert may not be able to see all the colors yet, but grappling with grey was a start.

He was lost in his own thoughts when Javert exhausted his words and fell silent. He was growing anxious. Where was Cosette now? Why must they continue to wait, subjecting themselves to Thénardier’s demands and letting him have full control of the situation? His heart felt torn in two. Before today, he would have already taken to the streets of Paris to search for the Patron-Minette to wrench Cosette free from their clutches. But now he must be sure Javert would not become irreparably damaged. He did not understand why—could not fully accept it—but the inspector had become someone important to him.

He stood up abruptly. “Come, Javert, you must be hungry. I brought along the bread and cured meat that Toussaint left for me at the other place. It is not enough for both of us, but we can supplement with fruits from the garden.”

Javert made no response.

He waited, knowing the difficulty that someone contending with past ghosts would have in shaking off the weight of the world. He remembered how impossible a simple act like standing up seemed to him. Someone helped him once, setting his crumbled, kneeling body back onto his feet with the gifting of precious silver. He had no silver to offer, but he was willing to be patient, to be by Javert’s side until a spark of hope would take hold onto the long-parched soil of his heart. It would be months or years yet for this new seed to grow, even longer for the new life to flourish. But it was important to be here with Javert at his start. He extended a hand. He refused to abandon someone in need.

Javert looked at the hand as if it would grow teeth and bite him. “I don’t need your charity,” he hissed, and Javert suddenly became a small child in his eyes, like a _gamin_ sniping at the very hands that offered healing and a home.

“No charity,” Valjean promised. “But since I enlisted your help to find Cosette, then I need my inspector well fed and able to perform his duty, do I not?”

A spark of the familiar Javert returned to those eyes. It was always back to duty with him. Duty to serve God and man. Duty to protect Montreuil-sur-Mer and its mayor. And duty to bring a lost girl home.

After a minute’s more of staring, Javert took the offered hand.

-

As soon as Valjean stepped out of the front door of the house and into the garden, his eyes turned toward the gate. The ledges were empty of any correspondence.

“Someone took our note.” He didn’t know if he should feel glad or frightened, for the matter was now out of his hands; it was up to Thénardier to respond. Mostly, he felt anxious.

Next to him, Javert’s head dipped with one sharp nod. “It appears so.”

“Do you think –”

“No guesses. You will only worry yourself to death.”

“I am already worried,” Valjean murmured. He glanced at Javert. The inspector was looking straight ahead at the row of fruit trees against the garden wall, as if he had lost interest in their present case until a response was to arrive. He followed Javert’s gaze toward the trees. In his haste to move to Rue de l’Homme Armé, he had neglected to harvest the fruits this year. “We have peaches and plums for the summer,” Valjean explained. “They have ripened over the past few days.”

“These are healthy trees, to have produced so much fruit.”

“They were planted by a previous owner. I only tend to them to ensure their continued existence.”

“And they flourish under your hands,” Javert said. There was an undertone of satisfaction that Valjean couldn’t quite understand. He turned his head, questioning, and caught a sight of Javert looking thoughtful. “You were a pruner, were you not?”

Of course Javert would know every detail of his past. The inspector must have pored over his case during these intervening years since his escape. What else was recorded in his file?

“Yes.”

“Jean Valjean, of Faverolles. One sister, seven nieces and nephews. You were twenty-seven then.”

He cast his eyes downward. There was no need to ask what _then_ meant. That day, Jean of Faverolles died. Instead, he had become many things. Thief, windowpane breaker, shame of the town, deserter of his sister, betrayer of his family. Nearly forty years later, Jean Valjean still could not completely purge away the ghosts of his past.

“Do you regret it?”

Something twisted deep inside him, and no amount of gritting his teeth or digging his nails into his palms could dull the pain. Why was Javert suddenly so interested in knowing his past? Was this his way of flipping around the offer to get to know him better? This was Javert at his worst, ruthless and aiming like a tiger straight for the target’s throat. One single question, and the protective walls that Valjean had so carefully built for himself over the years now lay crumbled around his heart. He supposed it didn’t matter, it wasn’t as if he still remembered what he was trying to hide. Whenever he tried to think about Jeanne and her children, they were nothing more than blank faces. He had forgotten what they looked like.

Javert was staring at him. The uncomfortable intensity was boring a hole deep into him. Valjean did not know what the man was trying to achieve, but he knew Javert expected an answer. What should he tell him?

As soon as the question crossed his mind, he realized there was only one response he could give.

He straightened both his body and his resolve and held the inspector’s gaze. As he did so, a sense of calmness washed over him. “I will tell you the truth, Inspector, for you deserve to know everything.

“No, Javert. For a long time, I did not truly feel remorse over my crime. I felt sorrow at the consequences of my sins. Imagine what it felt like to be in my place, hearing the judge condemn me to five years at the bagne! Yet when I pleaded with the judge, crying and apologizing, I did not know the true meaning of what I was saying then. I was merely feeling sorry for myself.

“You may find it difficult to believe, but I knew I did wrong. I knew why I was sent to the galleys. I was being punished for my theft. Yet even then I was ruing over my misfortune of being captured. I would still steal the loaf of bread, I think, if I could be brought again before the bakery with the assurance that I wouldn’t be caught. Can you believe it, Javert, that for nineteen years I was utterly blind!

“But yes. Yes, I regret it now. I saw the true nature of my sin after I encountered the Bishop, after I stole his silver…” He shook his head, but it did nothing to cast away the image that had long ago been seared into his memory: his unchanged self—a dangerous man—standing over the sleeping Bishop, ready to take the man’s life if he had stirred that night. “And after I stole from the chimney sweep. That was God’s final judgment, the moment when I realized what a monster I was.”

He cast Javert a small smile. The inspector had listened without displaying any emotion, his countenance like stone. Twice, the muscle around his left eye had twitched. Valjean couldn’t recall if Javert had blinked. It was as if he were confessing to a statue.

“You now know the darkest recess of my heart.”

When Javert said nothing, Valjean walked up to a peach tree, placing what distance he could from the man who would soon feel disgust in being so near a criminal. He looked deep into the tree’s inner branches to pick those hidden fruits that were protected from the pecking of birds. He leaned in so that his face and shoulders touched the outer branches. He breathed in a lungful of air, letting the sweet scent of succulent fruits wash over him. Hidden inside thick leaves, the outside world faded away and he was back to the previous summer standing at this very tree, with Cosette waiting eagerly for him to pronounce the fruits ready for picking. They had had an abundant harvest last year.

But he could not hide inside a tree forever. Valjean forced himself to emerge after he realized he’d made Javert wait for longer than it was proper. Out in the sun, Javert was still observing him, his body straight with tension. He watched as Valjean set his spoils onto the garden bench without uttering a single word.

“I will go pick some plums,” he said.

Javert gave no indication of having heard him.

He didn’t know how long he hid behind the plum tree, wishing that Javert would both go away and tell him what he was thinking. How had they come to this, revealing parts of themselves they had hidden from each other for decades? He had no right to pry into Javert’s secrets. And yet he’d asked, forcing the inspector to admit to wanting to jump. Was this why Javert now asked about his crimes? But Javert didn’t seek revenge, only justice. Though with the change that the man seemed to have undergone in the past two days, he wasn’t so confident that he knew the inspector anymore.

By the time he had stalled for as long as he could under this tree, Valjean had filled the entire crook of his arm with plums.

Javert looked at the fruits. “You’ve picked too much.”

He shrugged. This was the least of his concerns. “I will make the extras into jam.”

Javert looked at him appraisingly.

He sighed. “This is my life, Javert. I have tried, since the day I departed from Digne, to be an honest man, to live by honest work.” He did not say that this was how pruners and farmers lived their lives, preserving scant resources and spending their days performing simple, mundane tasks. He didn’t think someone who had dedicated his days to the Law would understand. “I plant, I water, I harvest. I take walks with Cosette and ensure that she is well provided for. I go to mass. I pray and I give alms. I serve my duty to the country by volunteering with the National Guards. I eat, I read, I sleep. That is all, Javert. I am nothing special.”

Javert’s eyes had gone dark with emotions that he could not identify. This was unfamiliar. There was none of the expected condemnation.

“Javert –”

The inspector abruptly turned toward the bench, bent down, and began gathering the peaches there into his arms. When he was done, he turned his body and started walking toward the house. Valjean followed, trailing after Javert. He cast one final glance at the gate. No reply yet.

When they reached the door, Javert stopped and whirled around with such force that Valjean barely caught himself in time to not crash into the inspector. In the nearness, Javert suddenly seemed a lot taller; his gaze seemed more intense. Valjean felt skewered in place, unable to step back despite being almost pressed up against the man. Javert’s lips were downturned.

“Jean Valjean.” Hearing his real name whispered with such ferocity sent his heart racing.

“Jean Valjean,” Javert said again, and this time, Valjean took a step back, leaning away from fury so tangible that it would crash down onto him at any moment. “Do not move!”

He stilled his steps.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you _dare_ , Valjean.” Javert was angry, furious. The man was shaking, his every pore exuding energy so intense that Valjean felt like a castle made of sand, about to be swept away by the ocean wave. “You. Are. A. Good. Man. Better than anyone else I know. Can you not simply accept it?”

Javert was calling him a good man. Javert shouldn’t be calling him a good man. Not after what he had just confessed. Had the inspector misunderstood? He had not only been a criminal, but an unrepentant one for nineteen years! He was not perfect, would never be perfect. And Javert, the unyielding man that he was, would never grasp the difference between perfection and the true goodness that he daily strived for but would never attain—the goodness granted to him by God’s grace and the Bishop’s forgiveness alone.

“I –”

“You are not perfect, you want to say? Then I do not want perfection.” Javert’s tone had gone low, but each syllable clapped like thunder to his ears. “I seek the man who saved me from death, twice, for no reason other than his goodness alone. This man took away the roar of the Seine from my ears. He is showing me even now how to embark on a new life. So tell me, Valjean, where has this man gone? Or is _he_ also an imposter?”

Valjean shuddered. A remote part of his mind noticed that a plum had fallen out of his arm. Javert’s eyes, with a flint-like glint, would not release him. He didn’t understand why Javert hadn’t yet stepped away. The inspector was willingly associating himself with someone he now knew fully, and they had never stood before each other so closely like this, breath against breath, with no more barrier between them.

“You know who I am,” he whispered.

He was Jean Valjean, nothing more.

Javert raised his lips to his nose, unsatisfied. But he seemed to realize that this was all the answer he would receive. Turning sharply again, he made for the stairs, leaving Valjean standing frozen by the door, gasping.

-

It was near the time of sunset when a reply to M. Fauchelevent finally came: _Rue des Saint-Pères,_ _midnight_ _. No delay. You will see your daughter after you hand over the money. That will be your proof. You must come or you will never see her again. If you do not come, beware._

One glance at the note, and Javert knew that Thénardier and his gang did not have Cosette. A fit of panic seized him. Where was she? What had they done with her?

Next to him, Valjean sat still, face pale, yet uncomprehending of the true meaning of the note. Jean Valjean—so unaware of his goodness and so gentle to those who had wronged him. Javert could not bring himself to say anything. Let the distraught father believe that he would see his daughter again in a few hours’ time. Perhaps between now and midnight, the Prefecture could find Cosette.

He stood, ignoring the pins and needles attacking his calves from the sudden movement. “I must go to the Prefecture. It is time.”

“Let me come with you –”

“No—you go home this time, and I mean it. The plan was never to have you go there, not since the very moment the Prefecture took over your case. The police has the location and the time, and the money if you would let me take thirty thousand francs for the purpose of the operation. Chabouillet and I will be there with Georges and Marcel. We will dispatch of the Patron-Minette and will come to you as soon as it is over.”

 _Possibly without Cosette_ , he thought bitterly. He was too deep into the case to change direction, to abandon the reason he proposed to Chabouillet of capturing the Patron-Minette. To his patron, not recovering the girl would be unfortunate but not enough to abandon the operation. But that would not be so for Valjean.

It was as if Valjean knew what he was thinking. “And Cosette?” he asked.

Javert cast his eyes on Thénardier’s note. He couldn’t face Valjean. “We normally take rescuees to the hospital, to have them examined. If her condition is stable, then she will return to you upon the doctor’s release.”

“But –”

“Go home, Valjean. Back to Rue de L’Homme Armé. The Patron-Minette doesn’t know you have moved there. You will be safe while you wait.”

Valjean looked at him for too long, his gaze too penetrating. Javert did his best to ignore him, walking toward the door and putting on his coat and hat, ill-fitting clothing that screamed of Valjean’s charity yet again.

“Cosette, she will be safe?”

He needed Valjean to return to his other home, to remain there until everything was over. If anything happened to Valjean, he would never forgive himself.

“Yes,” he lied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for keeping up with this story! Real Life has left me with virtually no time to write so unfortunately future updates are going to take longer. The plot will move pretty quickly from this point on. As always, I welcome your feedback!


	13. In Which the Inspector Must Come to a Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Javert has four hours to track down clues of Cosette's whereabouts before he is due at the warehouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, copious plot ahead! Please excuse any inaccuracies concerning 19th century Paris's police work, and my Making Things Up in general.

Javert went to the nearest police station house to demand the use of a horse to get him quickly to the Prefecture. He was never one to draw attention to himself by parading Paris’s streets on horseback, preferring to prowl the less savory parts of the city like a shadow lengthening over the alleys as the night deepened. Gymont had been a trusted friend, but he was more suitable for Montreuil-sur-Mer, and when he became too old for service, Javert had refused the Prefecture’s offer of a replacement.

But today was different, and as Javert urged his loaned horse to gain speed, digging his heels into the creature’s sides, he wished the world around him would stop so he could visit each place he and Chabouillet had identified as the Patron-Minette’s operating sites to search for clues there, to find out where anyone may have taken Cosette.

Letting the beast navigate through the busy streets by instinct, Javert ran through the likely scenarios of what could have happened in his mind. He knew inner dissention had been brewing within the gang. Had Montparnasse—he did not consider Gueulemer’s involvement, for that giant brute of a criminal was too stupid for any independent thought or action—taken Cosette in an attempt to usurp leadership over the Paton-Minette? But he should have done so at the time of abduction. There was no purpose in delivering Cosette to Thénardier and then trying to take her away again. Javert was certain that Thénardier still had Cosette held hostage when he’d sent the first note, for it was written with the sort of arrogance that made one sound idiotic, leaving no room for guile for a cover-up. And though resourceful, Montparnasse had never occurred to Javert as someone who bore ill will toward Thénardier. If he remembered correctly, the lad had behaved rather cozily with Éponine around the time of the Gorbeau House raid. No, with Thénardier’s pending departure to America, whether known to Montparnasse or not, the natural leader to take over would be the lad. There was no need for him to preempt what he already knew would be his.

Perhaps Cosette had escaped? Hope flared in him for a few seconds before a shudder passed through him and he prayed to God that this was not so. Thénardier’s men had extensive connections among every level of Paris’s underbelly. An order given to the nearest gamin to track down a girl looking lost in an unfamiliar _quartier_ of the city would mean Cosette’s almost-immediate recapture. She would only suffer further abuse under this scenario, and the Patron-Minette would then still have her in their possession. No, this also was not what had happened, whether Cosette attempted escape or not.

His mind turned to rival gangs and other rising thugs and criminals contending for power over disputed territories. He had no knowledge of which rival crime groups had their sight set on Thénardier. Javert cared little for fights among criminals—the more they eliminated each other, the better. But he now found himself bemoaning his lack of familiarity with how men of different gang affiliations regarded one another. And if he couldn’t narrow down the likelihood of an abduction to only certain groups, then the Prefecture would have all of Paris to search for clues and this would be an impossible task.

He sighed, his mind drifting to Valjean. _You are a good man_ , they had insisted upon each other. Good things happened to good people. Valjean deserved to live out his years with Cosette by his side, picking fruits under the summer sun and turning them into jam inside the coolness of his house. He deserved to have a daughter in his company, not an erstwhile enemy. Javert imagined the joy radiating from Valjean’s face on the day when Cosette and Marius would marry. How happy he would be then, to regain a family after having lost his original one a lifetime ago! But it was himself who now stood in the way of Valjean and Cosette’s happiness. And there was not a single thing he could think of to do about it.

His borrowed horse was nearing the bridge that would take him into the Prefecture. The Notre-Dame grew larger as he approached. Frustrated by a lack of concrete next steps, Javert urged the beast on at full speed and prayed that Chabouillet would be able to tell him what to do.

-

“Are you certain that the Patron-Minette does not have the girl?” Chabouillet asked, not for the first time in the past half an hour, even though Javert had given the same response each time.

“Yes, I am certain.”

Chabouillet sighed. He had no reason to doubt Javert. Looking down at Thénardier’s note that the inspector had brought with him, he was inclined to agree as well. He had seen numerous horribly written ransom notes throughout his years of service with the police—this was among the worst—and even those other near-undecipherable ones betrayed less of the writer’s weakness than this one. Three times Thénardier had demanded Fauchelevent’s presence as if he were trying to convince himself that the gentleman would come: _No delay… You must come… If you do not come, beware_. Combined with this a direct refusal to produce anything related to the girl, Chabouillet suspected too that something had gone awry in Thénardier’s scheme.

Javert had provided sound reasoning for ruling out several scenarios of what could have happened. And now the inspector was looking expectantly at him, waiting for him to come up with a solution and give the order.

Chabouillet was at a loss.

The most obvious course of action would be to proceed as if no one had noticed anything amiss. The Patron-Minette—at least Thénardier if not the others—would be at the pre-determined location at midnight to collect the ransom. Knowing that the Fauchelevent girl was not in the criminals’ possession would bolster the likelihood of the operation’s success; they would no longer need to maintain caution as they moved in to capture the men. But one look at Javert, and Chaouillet knew that this case had become more than simply capturing the Patron-Minette for his protégé. The severe inspector who had warned every partner he had worked with to never become emotionally invested in a case had now himself become entangled. If Fauchelevent would be heartbroken for losing his child, then Javert would be similarly devastated for the grief that he would blame himself for having caused Fauchelevent.

What could he do as a mentor and patron to this man who had finally displayed a sliver of emotion, when duty required him to act as the superior and proceed according to the Prefecture’s best interest?

He folded Thénardier’s note and pushed it aside on his desk. The gesture appeared far more confident than what he was feeling.

“We will go to the abandoned warehouse at Rue des Saints-Pères as planned, one hour before midnight,” he said, and Javert stiffened, trying but failing not to appear as if he were about to protest. Chabouillet waited for the expected dissention, but none came. He sighed. “Javert, I know this is going to be difficult for you. But without knowing where the girl has been taken to, we cannot even begin to devise a plan to conduct raids or sweep targeted areas. You said you have convinced Monsieur Fauchelevent to go to his second abode for his safety. He may be our best detective yet. For if the girl has indeed escaped, then she would know to return to either of her homes, will she not? The Monsieur will know to send word to the Prefecture.”

He paused, giving time for his words to sink into stubborn ears before continuing, “Whether this happens or not, it doesn’t alter our plan. Our purpose remains to capture the Patron-Minette, all of its members if possible. And inspector, I will not allow anything to come in the way of official police business.”

Chabouillet did not miss the slumped shoulders and the sudden weariness on Javert’s face as he bowed. “Understood, Monsieur.”

He eyed the man before him, a trusted colleague and someone who had risen among the ranks of the police against all odds. Javert would likely attribute his career to his patronage, but Chabouillet knew that his influence played only a small part, for without dedication to the police and near-perfect competence, a former prison guard would never have worked his way to the highest rank of inspector at the Paris Prefecture.

All this to say, he trusted Javert. He also knew that there was more to this case than the inspector was letting on. He was willing to take a risk.

“So now that you know what our primary mission must be, what is it that you suggest, Inspector?”

Javert looked up at him, surprised.

“Monsieur?”

“I have proposed that we appear at the warehouse one hour before midnight. This was the plan we devised and agreed on last night. But it is not yet seven. We still have four hours. What other courses of action do you have in mind?”

Javert was uncharacteristically silent, as if he couldn’t believe he had been granted permission to salvage a terrible situation. One look at the inspector deep in thought, and Chabouillet knew Javert would devote his last drop of energy to search for the Fauchelevent girl. Who was this man who seemed to have won Javert’s utter devotion? A day ago, Chabouillet would have believed that the inspector owed some financial debt or professional favor to the gentleman. But after seeing a side of Javert that he had never glimpsed in all these years, he was no longer so certain. Javert was dressed in someone else’s clothing—Fauchelevent’s, if he must venture a guess—and he wondered what other things the two shared, what else they had in common.

Javert bowed again. “Monsieur le Secrétaire, with your permission, I would like to examine the two other places where we know the Patron-Minette has operated above-ground. If I spend an hour at each site, plus accounting for travel, then that will leave enough time for us to arrive at Rue des Saints-Pères at ten, which will give us an hour to search that place and prepare for the operation to capture the Patron-Minette.”

The proposal was sensible. “Very well. You may do as you proposed. Take Georges with you, I do not want you to go alone. I will plan to arrive with Marcel at Thénardier’s designated location at ten. If any situation should arise while you search the two places, send word to the Prefecture immediately and I will dispatch reinforcement. You are not to engage with anyone without backup, are we clear?”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

Chabouillet nodded. “Then I bid you God speed. I expect to see you uninjured and in one piece tonight, Javert. Good luck.”

He stared at the door long after Javert had departed, his thoughts too numerous to ponder on anything in particular. But one thing was certain: Javert had found himself a friend since the barricades, and, not for the first time, Chabouillet wondered just who this Ultime Fauchelevent was to have achieved such an impossible feat.

-

The first site they went to was empty, utterly devoid of any signs of life that may have breathed upon the place over the past months. “Building” was too nice a word to describe the half-crumbled structure. The exterior wall, if one could call it such while ignoring the portion caving into the building’s interior at the second level, was covered with layers of grimy moss that had turned more black than green. The third story, having neither roof nor walls that completely encircled the level to keep it from the outside elements, appeared as if it was ready to collapse into the second story at the flap of a bird’s wings.

“Thénardier’s old base,” Javert said to no one in particular. Georges was trailing behind him, but he should already know about the Patron-Minette’s operating sites, so there was no need for relaying the information. But the place was too still, too quiet. It lacked even the scurrying of rats or stray cats. “This place was the counterpart to the Gorbeau House, actively used when Madame Thénardier was still alive. It was a site for the trading of illicit substances until a fire destroyed the upper levels. If I remember correctly, that was almost two years ago.”

“So this place is deserted?” Georges asked.

“It appears so. But appearances can deceive. We should enter and inspect the first level.”

Leading the way, Javert waded through overgrown weeds that may have once been part of a more orderly path leading to the front door. He did not stand back from the door when he pushed it open—the lock was long ago broken—since there was no need to anticipate danger waiting on the other side; the cobwebs stretching across door and windows told him that no one had entered the building in weeks or months.

Once inside, the stench of mold and something decomposing invaded his senses. He hoped it was a rat or some other animal. The sound of Georges trying not to gag behind him confirmed that the death of whatever it was had occurred early enough in the year for the corpse to be rotting through the entire spring. Javert made a mental note to send a gendarme to return here for a more thorough search. Given present circumstances, however, there was no time to investigate the unreported death of some street _gamin_ or gang member.

“Mademoiselle Fauchelevent wouldn’t be here,” he announced as he turned around. George’s countenance had acquired a tint of green. “She was brought up as a lady in every way and would not last an hour in this shithole. Let us go to the second place. We are done here.”

Looking relieved, Georges darted out of the building as he rounded up the two horses that were left standing by the premises. The Patron-Minette’s other known operating site was on the other side of Paris, across the Seine and closer to where the uprising had been the worst. Javert adjusted his borrowed cravat, feeling suddenly constricted around his neck. That part of Paris was filled with street rats who knew his face. While there was no risk of him getting captured this time, he and Georges would nonetheless have to be inconspicuous. Or else all hope of recovering Cosette before midnight would be lost.

“Your horse, Inspector.”

Javert nodded. He looked up. The sun had almost completely sunk beneath the horizon, but there was still light in the sky. They were ahead of schedule. Just to be safe, Javert would direct the horses to detour to the north and then come around toward their destination, avoiding the areas with the most disturbances. He knew of a tavern about ten minutes’ walk from where they were going where they could park their horses and continue on foot. The adjusted course and the switch to walking would take an extra half an hour, but with the almost-compulsory need for this mission to succeed, he preferred precaution over speed. He most definitely preferred to see Valjean smiling again instead of sinking into despair over losing Cosette.

He mounted the horse. “We are changing plans. Follow my lead.”

As he gave instructions to Georges and led the way on galloping horseback, Javert failed to notice two dark orbs glinting from among the overgrown weeds, curious eyes that trailed the paths of the policemen as they departed. It was only after both men were out of sight that the weeds parted, and a waif-thin shape barely covered with rags emerged. Seemingly able to understand where the inspector and his partner were heading next, the figure ran toward the opposite direction where Paris’s alleyways and tunnels offered a multitude of shortcuts to those who knew the way, and disappeared into the dimming night.

-

The second location wasn’t much better than the first, and in the dark surrounding, it was difficult to tell whether the perceived improvements were because the night sky could hide a multitude of defects. Javert motioned for Georges to hold the lantern closer. The entrance to this building led directly into a stairway. He noticed dust covering only the very left and right edges of each step and immediately came to two conclusions: people had until recently gone up and down this stairway, and those who used it were able-bodied people who did not need to lean against the handrails as they ascended and descended.

Drawing out his cudgel, he turned to Georges. “Let’s go up.”

The first level above ground opened up into a large empty space, as if the owner or occupant chose not to use it as the apartment that it was designed to be, but instead kept it vacant for storing a wide variety of items. To the right side of the space were several stacks of boxes. To the left side sat small furniture and kitchen items that took up almost the entire space of where a small dining area ought to be. Toward the back of the space were a table and several chairs that appeared more to be placed there for storage than for use. Javert returned his cudgel to his coat’s inner pocket. He motioned for Georges to give him the lantern so he could light the second one they took along. This place was empty; they could save time by searching different levels at the same time.

“From the looks of things, this building is uninhabited,” he explained. “However, if the Patron-Minette has used it recently, as it appears to be the case from the stairway, then it is possible that they have held Mademoiselle Cosette here at one point. I need you to examine everything to search for evidence that she may have been here. I will examine the upper level.”

“Inspector, is it a wise idea for us to be separated?”

Javert glared at the gendarme. “It is not a wise idea for us to be here at all. However, there isn’t a lot of time. If we do not gather enough clues of where the girl has been taken to in the next hour, then we will walk into Thénardier’s trap tonight at the warehouse already defeated.” And for Valjean’s sake, defeat was not an option. “Do your best to search through everything. If we can establish the likelihood of the girl having been here, then I can determine the next course of investigation.”

Georges’s mouth had drawn into a line as he spoke. In the dancing lantern light, he appeared every bit the vulnerable young man that he was, nervous but trying to appear brave. Javert could not remember if he had ever looked like this as a new gendarme. By the time he transferred to the police from the bagne, he had already handled enough to have become fearless.

“Remain here unless you are in mortal danger, in which case get outside and mount a horse to send word to the Prefecture. Otherwise, after I am finished with the upper level, I will come down to fetch you. Is that clear?” Georges nodded. At least the boy still had his wits. “Well, get started then. You have your orders.”

He did not linger to see which side of the room Georges chose to begin his examination. Lantern in hand, Javert walked back toward the stairway and made his way to the third level. This set of steps was covered with a thicker layer of dust, which meant fewer people had gone beyond the second level. Perhaps he was correct that the Patron-Minette primarily used this space for storing items. None of the furniture below seemed to have been contraband, though he very much doubted that anything in here was properly paid for. He would need to return to this place again after tonight to document all the likely stolen items.

But for now, he needed to focus on locating any sign of Cosette having been here. He had just under an hour, he reminded himself, forcing his mind to acknowledge that the mission of capturing the Patron-Minette was more important than finding a lost girl. But even as he reasoned to himself, he knew in his heart that it was a lie. A huff of bitterness slipped out as a mockery of a chuckle. How quickly he had become mired in seeking the happiness of Valjean, when for years it was the approval of M. Chabouillet that had motivated him toward excellence in his work! Jean Valjean, thief to the end, had stolen even his loyalty. His lips twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. Somehow, he did not mind it so much.

When he reached the end of the stairs, Javert swept his eyes across the large space to determine where he should begin. Like the second level, this floor was also kept intentionally open. The first thing he noticed was about four or five stacks of straws strewn across an area to his left. They were like beds of a lodging house. Two of the makeshift mattresses were larger than the others; there were three smaller ones. He drew closer, illuminating what he could with the lantern light. None of the beds had been occupied for quite some time. Not a place where Cosette had passed the night then.

Who were these beds for? Javert thought and then quickly dismissed the possibility of the Thénardiers and their three children. When she was alive, Madame Thénardier enjoyed the semblance of wealth and comfort. No, even if Thénardier was willing to subject himself to a straw bed, his wife would never stoop so low. It wasn’t as if the Patron-Minette hadn’t generated enough illicit money to live like the bourgeois. These were not for the family.

He raised the lantern to illuminate other areas on this level, finding nothing. Beyond the five stacks of straws, there was not a single piece of furniture or household object that hinted at domestic life having been conducted here.

Approaching the perimeters, Javert checked the windows. Cobwebs. No entry or exit for weeks at a minimum. He shone his light on the walls. Cracks and more cobwebs. He walked to the far end of the large space and did the same to the windows and walls there. Nothing. He was not even in the company of a single spider.

Frustration rose from his chest, burning something bitter that traveled from his stomach into the back of his throat. Had the Prefecture been mistaken all these years? Were there other places where the Patron-Minette operated above ground besides the two places he and Georges had now visited? Montparnasse and Gueulemer could have taken Cosette into the sewers, but Javert reminded himself again of the impossibility of this given the heightened police presence after the rebellion over every underground opening throughout Paris. Perhaps they had simply taken Cosette into the gutters, for Montparnasse knew the city’s underbelly well, having grown up as a _gamin_ on the streets. But the gutters were no place for secret keeping, and the news of a fair-looking girl appearing among the destitute would spread like the fire that ravaged an entire block of tenement buildings some years ago—meaning, the Prefecture would have already heard of it. He racked his mind for other possibilities. What if Thénardier had taken Cosette into wherever he was living? For surely he had amassed enough funds for himself to live the façade of a life as a respectable gentleman? But this again concerned the conclusion that he and Chabouillet had dismissed earlier, that if Cosette had so much as attempted escape, Thénardier would have enough eyes and ears stationed nearby to recapture her immediately. What if…

Javert shook his head, feeling defeated. He had exhausted every plausible possibility. There was clearly no sign of a young girl having been either here or at the place they went to earlier. And now the only remaining operating site he must still inspect was the warehouse at the Rue des Saints-Pères, where, judging by Thénardier’s note, he would not have Cosette in tow.

The thought of needing to relay the bad news to Valjean felt like a stab to his heart. He squeezed his eyes shut to stop thinking about what emotions might pass through the normally kind face. But his mind couldn’t banish Valjean from his thoughts. Would there be anger? Condemnation? Coldness? One thing he was certain, devastation would eventually set in and nothing would be able to chase it away.

Before he could think about it, Javert raised a fist and slammed it against the wall, rattling the windowpane nearby and sending dust flying everywhere. He coughed. The seizing of his lungs was not nearly painful enough compared to the squeezing sensation he was feeling from somewhere deep in his chest.

Just then, Javert thought he heard a sound. Was it echo from his assaulting the wall?

“Georges?” he called. No answer. For all the decrepit condition that this building was in, the structure was solid and sound did not travel well across different levels, doubtless the intention of the Patron-Minette for having chosen this place for their wiles. Perhaps he had imagined the sound? But the uncomfortable feeling of being observed suddenly overcame him. Something—or some _one_ —was here. He turned so that his back was against the wall. There was only one way for a person to steal into this floor without opening a window or boring a hole from the roof. He raised the lantern toward the stairway.

An emaciated figure stood near the top of the stairs, some twenty feet away. This shadow was ignoring him for the moment, looking instead to the left, over one of the straw mattresses.

“There were five of us, you know.”

He knew this voice.

“Azelma Thénardier.”

The figure raised her head, casting a solemn face into the lantern light. “Hello again, Inspector.”

“What are you doing here?”

She was peering at him, and despite the distance between them, Javert had to fight the urge to take a step back. This was a girl so thin that he could snap her into two like a twig. And yet this girl had knowing eyes like the oracles of old, ancient women who could stare straight into a person’s soul and reveal all the darkness there.

“I should ask you, Inspector. This is _my_ home, or at least what we used to call home whenever we could catch a night’s rest here, my siblings and I. Do you know that there were five of us? ’Ponine and Gavoroche and two other younger brothers?”

So the straw mattresses were for them.

“Father wouldn’t allow us in here when he had business to conduct, of course. Which was most of the year. So this is only sometimes our home. We spent most of our days in the streets.”

“Why are you here?” Javert repeated. Part of him felt as if he were talking to a specter, that he was imagining this. But he would have conjured Cosette and not Azelma, would he not, if this was of his own making?

Azelma looked thoughtful, as if she were considering how best to say what she was going to say. It was this look that confirmed for Javert that she had somehow followed them here, that this meeting was planned. He had been outwitted and kept in the shadows for the past hour.

“I know where Montparnasse and Gueulemer are,” she said. “You’re planning to take them out tonight at the warehouse, aren’t you? But it’d be easier if I lead you to them now.”

“Are you implying that you are an accomplice?”

Azelma shrugged as if being arrested didn’t concern her. “He does that, my father. Whenever he needs extra help, he always finds me.”

“Which makes you an accomplice.”

“No!” she protested. “You know very well that I had no idea about any of this when I met you and Fauchelevent yesterday evening. I didn’t even know his daughter was missing.”

Did Azelma know where Cosette is?

“Cosette Fauchelevent. Tell me –”

“You’re not listening. I said I had no idea about what my father and his gang did until today.”

Javert thought back to his exchange with Azelma yesterday. She had spoken to Valjean with contempt implying that a father should know where his daughter was. She was telling the truth.

“Then what is it that you want?”

“My father’s life,” Azelma said. There was no pause or hesitation. This was what she had come for. “As soon as I put two and two together, I knew he was doomed. He doesn’t know that Fauchelevent has engaged the police.”

Javert filed the information away for tonight. Perhaps it would be helpful to keep her talking, to lure her to divulge further information. And pretending to push someone away was the most effective way to get them to stay.

“All the better for us. This is your warning. Go. I do not require your help.”

Azelma didn’t move. “I can tell you where the other gang members are right now. Don’t you want to know?”

Javert sneered. “They will all be at the warehouse tonight, where I and my colleagues will be waiting. There is no need to go after them now when we will apprehend them all at once in a few hours.”

“Are you so sure you will win? Members of the Patron-Minette aren’t known for losing in fights.”

“If you are so sure of their victory, then why are you here bargaining for your father’s life?”

At this, Javert finally detected a crack in Azelma’s outward confidence, revealing the scared child within. She was crossing her arms, a defensive gesture that made her appear even more vulnerable. It was obvious that Azelma knew Thénardier would fail tonight, knowing what her father did not know, that the Paris Prefecture would send enough men to outnumber the Patron-Minette.

He continued, “Mademoiselle Azelma, stay out of this. This is your final warning. Say goodbye to your father and do not interfere. Or you will not be spared.”

Defiance flashed at him. “And so I should just stand by and do nothing and let him be captured? I will never do that. He will die!”

“He should have thought about that before he became a criminal.”

Javert held her gaze, allowing her to see the coldness that he was feeling inside. In all his years of serving the law, he had never been moved by the begging of mothers or daughters, brothers or uncles. Thénardier would be captured and sent to the guillotine. That was the correct order of things, pleading eyes looking up at him not withstanding.

To Azelma’s credit, there were no tears.

“Please… I’m not asking for his release. I only ask for his life. Put him in prison forever, he deserves it. Just spare his life…”

“That is not for me to grant. I make the arrest. Others make the judgment.”

“Then don’t arrest him!”

He threw his head back and laughed, cackled. From the level below, not a sound could be heard, no inquiry as to whether everything was all right. Was Georges deaf?

“Do you think me a fool? A traitor to my profession? I arrest criminals. That is what I do.”

Azelma suddenly straightened herself. Her head tilted slightly backward, her chin jutting out. In the matter of seconds, she had transformed from a cowering cub into a dangerous lioness.

“Then why don’t you arrest _him_?”

Him? Did she mean – no, it couldn’t be…

“I wasn’t sleeping that whole time, Inspector. At the Rue Plumet house. You’ve both said enough for me to figure it out. Don’t tell me you have no idea. Fauchelevent dresses like he has some disease that prevents him from exposing his skin to the sun. But that’s because he’s hiding his scars, isn’t he? And he walks with a limp. If I can see it, then you must know it also. Why isn’t _he_ in prison? Hmm?”

“You have no idea what you are speaking of –”

“Do I? Jean Valjean, isn’t it? My father keeps spitting out that name like it’s poison. He’s done his research. This Jean Valjean is a parole breaker, a highwayman who escaped from the bagne. Faked a whole town into believing him to be a magistrate! So you’re turning a blind eye to him and now claims to be all righteous and following the law in wanting to have my father arrested? Tell me, Inspector Javert: Is this the justice you like to dangle over us poor people? Ignoring your rich friend’s crimes while destroying the life my father?”

 _She knows_.

Jean Valjean was no longer his secret. _She knows. Thénardier knows. And soon everybody will know._ He wondered if he could take her into the Prefecture’s custody until after tonight’s raid. Azelma was feisty and would surely resist arrest. He glanced toward the stairway. Perhaps with two of them…

“Your buddy is too distracted with examining downstairs,” she said, sneered, and Javert was forced to agree with her, cursing both the building’s unusually strong sound insulation and Georges’s inattention to what was happening directly above him. He gripped his lantern harder. The wooden pole had become slick with sweat from his palm.

“So you’re protecting Fauchelevent like a pet criminal and refuse to hand him over to the law,” Azelma accused, curling her lips. Was this what he looked like to criminals, eyes cold and face twisted with self-sure satisfaction? He wanted to rush up to her, to clap a hand over her mouth. Valjean was not a pet criminal. He was a good man! But what did this street rat of a girl know? She was even now comparing Valjean to her father—there wasn’t and would never be any comparison between Jean Valjean and Thénardier. Javert felt pain in his other palm, and it took several seconds to realize that he had curled his other hand into a tight fist, with his nails digging into his flesh.

“And here I thought you are irreproachable and just, not like the other coppers who play favorites. Tell me. What is he to you, anyway?”

Would she never stop? “He is a good man,” he said through gritted teeth.

Azelma was sneering again, even though the previous sneer hadn’t truly gone away. This one was accompanied by contempt in her eyes. “Really? A criminal? I doubt that.”

“You saw him. He is good.”

Shrieks that could barely pass for laughs reverberated through the air, echoing off of the bare walls and flooring. Azelma first arched back, then leaned forward into cradled arms across her stomach. Javert pressed his lips against each other. Let her jeer. He had spoken the truth about Valjean and was ready to defend him before anyone.

“Oh,” Azelma gasped, wheezing. “Oh… this is… good. Inspector… Javert under the… spell of a criminal… Tell me… what happens when… when the other coppers find out?”

He snarled. “You will not –”

“I don’t need to!” She let herself become lost in laughter for some more seconds. “You want to arrest my father and his gang? Well, you’re not going to do it alone. Let me ask you: What’s going to happen tonight when my father blurts out who Fauchelevent really is? Can you still protect him then? Hmm?”

He wouldn’t. Thénardier would be too busy wondering if he would get his money. He wouldn’t –

But why wouldn’t he scream out Valjean’s true identity the moment he realized his scheme had failed? Valjean would be the ideal leverage for a criminal hoping to escape from a death sentence. Javert could hear it now: _Do you know who this Ultime Fauchelevent really is? A criminal! His real name is Jean Valjean. You should be arresting him, not me!_

And Chabouillet would be there to hear every word.

When he met Azelma’s eyes this time, there was nothing but shrewd calculation there.

“My father’s life, Inspector. I will tell you where the others are and you can go arrest them now. But stay away from my father and I’ll let him know not to bother showing up tonight. Then your little secret will remain safe.”

Javert felt immobilized under that gaze. _She would make a good inspector_ , he thought to himself. _She’s a lot like you._

Would he agree to such a bargain, when it was nothing short of blackmail?

Was he willing to forfeit his duty to the Prefecture for a criminal? He cursed himself for being so naïve. Did he truly believe he could shield Valjean forever? The man was still wanted in the eyes of the Law, and it would be an inexcusable offense if he were to go beyond merely keeping silent to actively obstructing justice. Valjean’s gentle face floated to mind, replacing the increasingly triumphant one gloating in his direction. What would that face look like, once he realized he had been betrayed? Would those eyes accuse, or would that damnable kindness remain in spite of everything, the saint forgiving his Judas?

He was at a loss—in truth, he did not know what he would do, when the time came for him to lead Chabouillet and the gendarmes into the warehouse with the full knowledge that one mention of Valjean’s true name would send the man back to hell. But to abort the operation was equally unthinkable. He had already lost his irreproachability. He refused to throw away his honor.

He couldn’t step back now. This meant Azelma must not be allowed to urge her father to divulge Valjean’s identity. This meant… there was only one way.

In one swift motion, he reached into the inner pocket where he kept his pistol, drew it out, and pointed it at Azelma.

“I’m afraid you will have to remain in the police’s protection until we apprehend all members of the Patron-Minette.”

Defiant eyes stared unblinkingly back at him. “Go ahead, fire.”

Javert took aim even as something deep inside him protested. What was he doing? Was he truly going to mock justice by taking the law into his own hands?

Azelma must have noticed his hesitance, for her face was split into a horrible grin. She knew she had won. “I will not go with you, and I don’t need your _protection_. Don’t forget, Inspector, I’ve lost all my family in the past day. My father is all I have left. If I’m going to lose him tonight anyway, then what is it to me if I die now? You don’t want me to tell him about Fauchelevent? Very well. Commit a new crime to cover up your old ones then, why don’t you? Protect your Jean Valjean. Go ahead. Shoot me, I dare you!”

His finger was on the trigger, and despite the steadiness of his arm, his insides were trembling violently, recoiling at the truth of Azelma’s words. She had no hand in Cosette’s abduction and subsequent disappearance. If he were to shoot, even if only to injure and not to kill, then the guilt of harming an innocent would fall entirely on him.

He may no longer be irreproachable, but Javert refused to be a traitor to the law.

He lowered the gun.

“Go,” he whispered, surrendering. He had been defeated by the girl.

Azelma looked at him oddly, her eyes glinting with an emotion he could not place. “You’re letting me go, just like that? Even if I head straight to my father from here and tell him to give up Fauchelevent’s identity at tonight’s meeting?”

He closed his eyes. _Forgive me, Valjean._

“There is still time to convince your father to abort his attempt at extorting money from Fauchelevent. Then no one will be arrested or exposed –”

“Which he won’t, and you know it.”

“Then when he enters the warehouse tonight, he will walk to his death.”

He could already see it. They would both lose. Thénardier would be arrested and Valjean would be betrayed. Azelma would lose a father and he… a friend.

“So it’s still a no?”

“It is still a no.”

It was not the answer she wanted to hear. Javert wondered if she also knew that this wasn’t the answer he wanted to give. But when he saw her eyes narrow, he knew she would never understand the betrayal he had committed against a good man in the name of the law.

“Do you know what they say about you on the streets, Inspector? They say you have no heart. You really don’t give a damn that I am about to lose the last of my family, do you?”

“That would be an accurate assessment.”

“And yet you care so much about _him_ …” She paused, and there was that odd glint in her eyes again, making her look older beyond her years. “She doesn’t know his true identity, you know.”

Was she speaking of Cosette? “Where is she?”

“Where?” She laughed. “My father and his men may be dangerous, but they’re never particularly intelligent. They’ve lost her.”

So it was true.

“And you know this, don’t you? You don’t even seem surprised. Why are you still allowing this, to pretend to Fauchelevent that you’re going to carry out this little operation of yours tonight to bring him back his daughter?”

“My orders are from the Prefecture. The primary goal of the mission is to eradicate the Patron-Minette.”

“Which you will do, unless I can by some miracle convince my father to abort his scheme. So for the sake of making a handful of arrests, you’re going to condemn my father to death and your _friend_ to the galleys?” A huff. Javert recognized it as one of those that exasperated parents would employ in front of intractable children. “Inspector, you really have no heart.”

“That is of no concern to you.”

“But to him? Fauchelevent, Jean Valjean? Anyone can tell that Cosette is his whole life. And when I saw Cosette last night, she was so sure that her father will rescue her.”

The image of a young girl so confident in her father’s love struck like a hammer blow to his chest. He was going to fail Valjean in every possible way: betraying his identity, losing him a daughter, and denying a good man of the opportunity to spend the last years of his life in peace. Javert had never noticed his inner poverty until now; when he looked within himself in attempt to draw on something, anything that would help resolve at least one of his present dilemmas, he could find nothing but the suffocating pronouncement of the law.

“If you know of her whereabouts, Mademoiselle Azelma, for Valjean’s sake, please…”

There was no air of triumph coloring her face, no sneer of satisfaction at finally hearing the inspector beg. Instead, Azelma looked at him meaningfully as if he had just confessed the entirety of Valjean’s worth to him. Maybe he had.

“Like I said, they lost her. It happened a few hours ago. She’s alive, at least when she disappeared. This is all those clueless men know.”

Javert heard the finality in her tone. There was nothing else she would disclose to him about Cosette or the Patron-Minette’s plans. He nodded. “Thank you, Mademoiselle.”

He did not move when she walked past the stairway and walked out through a window, one that anyone who came in by the stairs would have easily missed by having their back turned to the opening. Azelma’s face, her posture, and her footfalls all carried an air of defiance. But as Javert trailed his eyes behind her, following her until she disappeared into the night, he did not miss the slumped shoulders and the way that her head was slightly bowed despite her best effort to hold it up high.


	14. In Which Paris' Night Sky Sees All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A deserted street by Paris' quay receives many visitors tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is more of an interlude. I needed it to be a standalone chapter to set the stage for the upcoming action (hence the upping of total chapter numbers once again). Rest assured, the story _will_ end!

Near the quay of Rue des Saintes-Pères stood a stone buiding, indistinguishable from the other run-down structures that lined the street save for its unusual girth. This building was easily twice as wide as the other houses. Some said a shrewd businessman purchased the house adjacent to his when some _nouveau riche_ who once lived there fell on hard times and had to flee the country; the businessman was only too happy to turn his new acquisiton into a commercial site for storing his goods. Others believed the houses belonged to lovers who became spouses, who then proceeded to join their abodes as well as their lives. Still others cared little for how this particular abandoned structure came to be, only that it was usurped by good-for-nothings whose faces and gang affiliations varied from month to month, all while the illicit substances passing through the building’s back door retained the consistency of being something dubious and dangerous.

On this night, Rue des Saintes-Pères was deserted as usual. No one saw two shadowed figures walking toward the empty warehouse around half past nine. They walked as if they were the street’s rightful owners, arms swinging by their sides and their steps sure. Yet upon a closer look, these two men were in reality much less confident than they appeared. Confusion clouded the face of the tall and bulky one, and the slender and younger one possessed such an air of hostility that “angry” would be too light a word to describe the sentiment etched on his flaring nostrils and narrowed eyes.

“I told you to keep watch over her, and what happens? She’s gone!”

“Sorry, ’Parnasse. I don’t mean to.”

“Don’t mean to? Is this how you think you’re getting away with things every time? Gueulemer, the Spouter of Excuses Out of His Ass? Oh, I don’t mean to lose the girl. I don’t mean to lose the keys to one of the most strategic sewer junctures. I don’t mean to eat all the cheese in the cupboard –”

“I didn’t eat all the cheese in the cupboard.”

“That’s not the point!” The younger man snapped. “We forged a new key and I didn’t want that stinky cheese anyway. But where do you expect me to find another rich man’s girl? I can’t just pluck one out of the crowd. And worse, the Boss is now furious with us. If that old man hands over his money, fine. If not, you and I are going to get flayed alive.”

“I’ll give up my share of the money.”

“ _What_ money? If Fauchelevent doesn’t pay the ransom, you’ll have no share to give up!”

“I was just trying to make suggestions…”

“Shut it, will you? Just keep your dumb thoughts to yourself and pray to whoever will listen that you won’t botch this one up for us.”

“But I –”

“I said shut up!”

The larger man, sufficiently cowed, fell silent. No more words were exchanged as the two shadows slipped into the abandoned warehouse—though it would be more accurate to term the younger man’s gait as _stomping_ —leaving no trace of their having walked down the street with one of them screaming so loudly that the silence resettling upon the night now felt too empty, too hollow.

 

Not half an hour later, four men stole down the same street, quiet as a family of felines stalking toward a rodents’ nest. All of them were dressed in workmen’s clothing, but none looked comfortable in their ill-fitting costumes. The taller, older man in particular (for two of them were mere boys) was swimming in his clothes, so broad at the shoulders were they that were it not for his passable outercoat, what his overlarge shirt revealed would be indecent to the eye in broad daylight. This man, too, appeared more tense than the others, like a stretched bow about to snap. Several times he opened his mouth as if about to speak, but brought it closed again each time while averting the gaze of the oldest man, the group’s obvious leader.

This leader halted his steps when they were about twenty feet from the building. He turned to the nervous man. “Your recommended course of action for searching this place prior to our _rendez-vous_ with Thénardier, Inspector?”

The man addressed as “Inspector” straightened his body as if to banish his apprehension. “There are four of us and three of them. This building has three levels. I am certain that Thénardier will enter and remain at the first level. I will search the floor prior to his arrival and then wait in the shadows for him.

“It is of utmost importance that we capture Montparnasse and Gueulemer before I encounter Thénardier. Monsieur, I suggest you and the others examine the second and third levels together, for surely there are many rooms inside this conjoined building. It would be safer to outnumber them, and certainly it is best for the three of you to always remain in proximity with each other.”

The inspector’s superior cast his subordinate one of those gazes that spoke of a dubious confidence in either the man or his plan. “And to leave you alone to handle Thénardier should he already be inside? It is both unsafe and unwise, Javert.”

Javert bowed. “Monsieur Chabouillet, I have crossed paths with Thénardier numerous times. By himself, he is of no threat to me. It is more important to apprehend the others before they come together.”

The two younger men behind Javert and Chabouillet looked from one superior to the other, neither daring to say a word. Was one more correct over the other? Chabouillet was clearly unconvinced. His eyes narrowing, he questioned the inspector: “If I don’t know you better, Javert, I would believe you are trying to divert the rest of us away from Thénardier.”

Even under the dim moonlight (for these four policemen—it was evident that that was what they were—knew better than to use a lantern while spying), one would notice Javert’s face going pale, draining of all blood. “This is not so, Monsieur!” he protested. “I merely thought it would offer our operation a better chance of success if we eliminate the two Patron-Minette members prior to midnight. I would go to the second level with you if I believe I can be of better use there. But once Thénardier enters the warehouse, it is imprudent to have any of us then try to sneak into the first level. One of us must examine the ground floor now and stay hidden until he arrives.”

As if understanding the inspector’s desire to sacrifice his own safety and put himself in danger ahead of the others, Chabouillet’s face softened. “Then can Marcel not be the one to inspect the first level? Or Georges? You must know that I too am willing to deal with Thénadier face-to-face. You do not have to always assign the most dangerous task to yourself, Javert.”

The inspector gave another bow. “Monsieur,” he said, pausing for some seconds as if to collect his thoughts. It would be evident to anyone willing to observe Javert for but a few minutes that here was a man who treated his every spoken word seriously. Chabouillet too seemed to understand this. He stood, waiting patiently, considering his subordinate with an air of curiosity as the inspector struggled for words to proceed.

“Monsieur le Secrétaire,” Javert said at length, “it would be a privilege to finally bring Thénardier to justice by my own hands. Forgive me for my pride, but I speak the truth when I say I have been dreaming of the day to capture that despicable criminal.”

For a long moment, the silence over Rue des Saints-Pères once again seemed too oppressive. But Chabouillet eventually relented, dipping his head in one sharp nod, and turned to the two young men still trying to appear invisible while their two superiors disagreed. “Georges, Marcel, come along then. Inspector Javert will search the first level and wait for Thénardier’s arrival. We must do our part and apprehend Montparnasse and Gueulemer within the next hour. All three of them must not be permitted to join forces, or else the success of the operation will be in jeopardy.”

“Yes, Monsieur,” the young men said in unison, relieved to be given a task now that the group had come to a common decision. They straightened their bodies and walked with ginger steps after Chabouillet.

Inspector Javert stared at the warehouse long after his three teammates disappeared into the building. The careful observer would notice that tremors had seized the fingers of his left hand against his best effort to retain his composure. It was another minute before he clenched the trembling fingers into a fist. As he did so, color gradually returned to his face.

Breaking from his paralysis, Javert cast one look at the star-filled sky as if sending a prayer heavenward before he, too, rounded toward the back of the warehouse to seek entrance through a side door or a broken window.

 

Over the next hour, Rue des Saintes-Pères saw four more shadowed figures approach the same abandoned warehouse. The four men arrived separately, and as they did not seem to be aware of being part of a steady stream of visitors all converging into this unlikely destination, none betrayed to the night sky their motives for coming here, at this night and to this place, whether through words or action.

-

It was believed that the night sky of Paris sees all, though all knew that the sky would neither aide the dispensing of charity nor obstruct the committing of crimes. Away from the warehouse, to the east of the city and on the opposite side of the Seine that ran through Paris like the barricades that only two days ago divided the hearts of citizens unto different loyalties, a young girl that was discharged from the hospital several hours ago finally found the courage to return home. Having been used to sharing her living space with two other friends, her modest apartment suddenly seemed too lonely. Perhaps this was the reason why she had gone out and acquired company for the night, drowning herself in the familiarity of interacting with another person rather than giving alcohol the satisfaction of pushing her into oblivion. Sharing company with another was not the same as living mundane moments with her lovers. But for tonight, this would have to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have now plotted the story to its end -- and I'm pretty sure that this time, the characters won't revolt and try to change the plot's direction once again. I will need some time to write everything out. Thanks for being patient and following along so far!


	15. In Which an Imperfect Plan Went Awry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Confrontations rarely go as planned. When the plan is fallible to begin with, it can only end in disaster. But for which side?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains minor character deaths, but nothing graphic and no violence is shown on-screen.

Javert slipped into the first level of the abandoned warehouse. Thénardier had not yet arrived. Above him, he could hear footfalls by way of creaking floor boards that let him know Chabouillet and the others had begun searching the second floor. If Montparnasse and Gueulemer were already here, then he knew the confrontation, altercation, and arrests would not take the full hour. What would happen then? Most likely, Chabouillet would assign Georges and Marcel to keep watch over the bound men and then come down to join him in capturing Thénardier. That would be the sensible course of action; it was what he would do as an inspector.

But Javert the Protector of Jean Valjean wanted nothing more than to have the gang members engage his colleagues for the entire duration of the operation. He would knock Thénardier unconscious if he needed to. He would also not hesitate to use his pistol if it became required of him—to prevent the furthering of crime, of course, and not for the purpose of silencing a man. Thénardier was already bound for the guillotine. Death would be just.

He chose not to ponder on the inconvenient fact that, were it not for the king’s mercy, Valjean, too, was once sentenced to death when he was rearrested after Arras.

Javert swept his eyes over an entirely empty first level. The warehouse was indeed abandoned. He supposed the Patron-Minette once used this space for the loading and unloading of illicit goods, taking advantage of the building’s proximity to the river for out-of-town transport. If the original configuration of either of the two conjoined buildings had not been altered, then both the connected second and third levels must have numeours chambers for the storing, sorting, and displaying of trafficked items. This was the reason why the Patron-Minette rose to such power. Thénardier, for all his proclivity toward criminal activities, remained at the core a shrewd businessman. Money bought weapons and power and his lackey’s loyalty. Though an independent criminal in name, Thénardier was by all accounts the leader of the Patron-Minette.

Javert allowed himself a rare sigh of relief. Cosette, then, was no more than another financial transaction to Thénardier. The extortion for money may simply be that, and the night may yet pass without Thénardier giving thoughts to a convict’s real name.

Besides, he seemed to have convinced the others that, once upstairs, it was unwise to come down. Javert knew his reasoning was full of fallacies: field operatives must always engage their targets in pairs—it was a rule that even a first-week gendarme would know. Further, as an inspector, he was trained precisely to engage with a target as a way of distraction so that reinforcements could infiltrate without being noticed. Chabouillet was a seasoned officer; it would be easy for him to come down to the first level unnoticed, with or without Théndarider’s presence. But his patron did not press the issue when they were discussing strategies and Javert pretended not to notice the sieve-like logic of his proposed plan, so he chose to cling onto the single remaining thread of hope that perhaps Valjean’s identity would not be compromised tonight.

His heart pounded faster as Azelma’s words rang in his ears: _What’s going to happen tonight when my father blurts out who Fauchelevent really is? Can you still protect him then?_

“I don’t know,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head. Truly, he did not know what he would do if Valjean was betrayed.

He did know that, for all that he could claim ignorance in living a life full of sin in the name of justice until this point, he was now consciously choosing to violate the law. Harboring a criminal was as unforgivable as being a criminal. Javert remembered his resignation letter in the pocket of his coat, the one he had left behind at the Rue Plumet house in exchange for Valjean’s plainclothes. _After tonight_ , he told himself. _After tonight_.

A distant bell tower struck eleven; the sound jolted Javert from his thoughts. He surveyed his surroundings again. There was a small space near the entrance where a protruding wall provided the perfect cover for hiding. He walked past it. It would be foolish to secret himself inside the most obvious place where anyone would know to look. The moonlight was dim and offered many other shadowed alcoves for him to blend into his surroundings. Javert chose a small space to the left side, about halfway between the entrance and the far wall at the back. It must have been the dividing line between the two buidings before they were conjoined, where the two properties’ walls did not match up completely. Crouching down so he could disappear into the darkness, he resigned himself to torturous thoughts about Jean Valjean as he waited for Thénardier’s arrival.

-

The decrepit floorboards were making too much sound, Chabouillet thought each time either Georges or Marcel placed their weight rougher than necessary into a single step behind him. In the silence, each groan and squeak from old wood screamed of their intrusion. They may as well be announcing their arrival like an army heralded through the town gate with blasting trumpets. Chabouillet gripped his cudgel harder, though he didn’t think the gesture would help him much. If Thénardier’s remaining lackeys were indeed in the building, then the three of them were no more than sitting ducks, splashing about in a confined pond and at the mercy of hunters already pointing their rifles at them.

But no cocked pistol or swinging fist greeted them. As they walked forward, leaving the stairway and the landing of the second level behind them and passing a second door to their right, Chabouillet could make out a dim outline of another stairway straight ahead of them. It was as if he were looking at a mirror reflecting the image of their present surrounding not at them but through them, and he understood at once that they were walking from one erstwhile building to the other; the wall that once separated the vast second level into three rooms per property had long since been torn down. This meant two ways of egress—two ways of ambush and two fronts of assault—now bounded them at the front and from behind. Chabouillet swallowed his rising alarm through a throat that suddenly went dry. Of course the Patron-Minette chose this place as one of its bases. Anyone careless enough to walk into the lion’s den would find himself situated like thus in the middle of a tactical tunnel, a trap.

“Stay close,” he whispered to the two young gendarmes, each syllable calm despite his unease. Decades of working for the police had taught him never to panic. This was most certainly not the worst position he had been in. “Our targets can approach us from the front or from behind. But there are only two of them. Their only advantage is the element of surprise. If we are careful, we will not let them have this advantage. Be prepared for them to emerge from either staircase.”

“And the rooms?” Georges asked.

Chabouillet nodded. “Yes, consider that as a possibility as well. There are six rooms to our right, two behind us and four ahead of us. Thus my observation still stands. They will appear either from before or behind us.” He considered the dim light coming through the windows on their left. “Be mindful of the windows as well. Though unlikely, we must not dismiss the possibility that our targets may choose to enter directly from the outside.”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

“We will have to search the rooms,” Chabouillet said. “I will open each door while you two stand guard in the event that someone attacks from within. As soon as I ascertain that a room is empty, return to observing the stairways. I will search for clues that may lead us to the whrereabouts of the missing girl. Alert me immediately if anyone should come up the stairs, even if it is Javert.”

“And if someone comes down from the third level?” Marcel asked.

Chabouillet paused before answering. “That is unlikely,” he said after sifting through what he knew of this place thus far and construing several potential scenarios. “They will not want to be caught using the stairs, for the stairway is narrow and only allows one person to take the steps at a time. Coming up from the first level is plausible because they woud not know we are here. But if they are on the third level, then our steps would have already alerted them of our presence. They will wait. It is to their advantage to force us to mount the stairs toward them.”

This raised the unsavory question of how best to go up to the third level after they cleared this floor, which judging by the lack of any sound aside from their whispers, appeared to be quite deserted indeed.

“We will wait here after we finish examining this level,” Chabouillet decided. “We have the time. Either we will encounter Montparnasse and Gueulemer coming up the stairs or we will try their patience and lure them into coming down to discover our reason for not continuing with our search. In both instances, we will hear their steps and learn which stairway they will use. Be prepared to point your pistols at the correct stairway to apprehend them as soon as they emerge.”

Both Georges and Marcel nodded, and Chabouillet felt satisfied at his plan save for the one regret that, unless the capture would be swift, none of them would be able to rejoin Javert on the first level to lend additional support. But Javert had proven himself to be a most capable officer over the years, and Chabouillet did not doubt his inspector’s assurance that he could confront and arrest Thénardier one-on-one. Javert’s insistence on being alone may have been a rash and, at the time, quite a non-sensible suggestion, but it appeared that the inspector knew what he was doing all along.

Having thus settled on this one detail that was troubling him, Chabouillet turned to the two gendarmes. “Let’s start with searching the two rooms that we passed. Should we locate Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, Marcel, you will keep watch over her while Georges and I proceed with the plan. Our priority is to capture the Patron-Minette. Understood?”

“Yes, Monsieur,” they both said, louder and no longer a whisper this time, and Chabouillet wondered whether their search would yield anyone at all, when this desolate place was so obviously abandoned.

-

And so Inspector Javert cleared his mind the best he could as he waited for Thénardier’s arrival, while Chabouillet, Georges, and Marcel proceeded to examine each of the six rooms on the second level of the building. It should be noted that time seemed to be passing differently for the two levels’ respective occupants. After what felt like enough time to burn up an entire length of a candle, but which in reality was no more than several minutes, Javert stood from his hiding place to stretch out his legs, warding off the impending pins and needles that he knew would start assaulting his calves if he were to remain crouching for too long. Guilt pricked at his conscience. There was time yet, and he knew the proper course of action was to join the others to expedite the searching of the upper levels. But the half-truths he had spoken rendered him useless, confining him to an empty space under the constructed illusion that only he must wait for and confront Thénardier.

Javert looked out a window, careful to stand to the side of the opening so he would not be spotted from the outside. In his nearness to the river, he could hear the crashing and foaming of turbulent waters. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs until they hurt and then exhaling forcefully through his nose. He shouldn’t be breathing, nor should his heart be pounding shame deep into him with each traitorous beat. He wondered what he would be required to say should his plan go awry. _I wasn’t able to find your daughter, and now I must arrest you._ Should he add “by order of Monsieur le Secrétaire” or explain that it was due to Thénardier’s slip of tongue? But that would be cowardly. No amount of diverting blame unto others would absolve him of his guilt. And for sending a good man back under the chains, he deserved no reprieve, no mercy.

But his plan hadn’t yet gone awry, and so Javert continued to wait, willfully ignoring his policeman’s instinct urging him to go lend support to his colleagues. Instead he stood, looking at the moon and stars in a gesture of platitude, nursing a sliver of hope that tonight would come and go without any mention of the name _Jean Valjean_.

 

While the inspector fretted over what was to come, time seemed to pass by in double speed for Chabouillet. The room search was proceeding too slowly for his liking—each chamber was stuffed to the brim with contraband items that made searching for clues nigh impossible. Squinting under the refracted moonlight coming through one of the windows, Chabouillet checked his pocket watch. It was now past eleven, and any time now Thénardier would appear to prepare for his meeting with M. Fauchelevent. He cast a glance down the corridor. Two rooms searched, four more remained.

By now, Chabouillet very much doubted that anyone would appear either from the stairways or from one of the rooms. If the Patron-Minette was already in this building, then they would most likely be standing guard outside or within the first level. Surely Thénardier wouldn’t be so foolish as to appear alone.

Chabouillet motioned to the two gendarmes. _Hurry_. Four more rooms, and then he would reassess their progress and decide whether to head up to the third level or down to the first to provide backup for Javert.

-

At half past eleven, Thénardier entered the warehouse. Not five minutes later, two men emerged from what seemed like the back door of the building, as if they had long been here and were approaching only to await further instructions from their leader.

Javert remained still. The building must have at least two back doors. He reminded himself that this used to be two separate structures, so that the one he entered and found to be empty could very well be just one of many other doors that led to the inside.

“You two took your sweet time.” There was a frown in Thénardier’s voice, as if he were displeased. It was not yet midnight. What other crimes had the two been sent off to commit?

“It’s done.”

“Good.” Thénardier’s mood lifted. Javert could tell by the trace of insincerity that always laced his every word. There was a mock sigh. “It’s a pity. I didn’t want to get rid of such a pretty face.”

Pretty face? Did he mean Cosette? But he was sure Azelma spoke the truth when she said they had lost her…

“Ah, never mind,” Thénardier continued. “So are we all clear on what will happen tonight?”

“Yes,” A deeper voice said, “we hide in the alcove for the old man to arrive. He gives you his money, you pretend to fetch his daughter from the alcove, and we attack.”

“Good.”

Javert frowned. Montparnasse and Gueulemer planned to remain near Thénardier, which meant he would be outnumbered. Should he yell for the others to come down when midnight approached? That would undo everything he tried to set up. Perhaps he should wait and pray that he would remain undiscovered. Thénardier would surely grow anxious when there would be no Valjean. He may then send the others up. Yes, this would be a better plan. The two Patron-Minette members would walk into Chabouillet’s trap and he would be free to dispose of Thénardier. Patience, Javert reminded himself. He must not give into his nerves now.

Just as his heart grew calm again, however, Thénardier cackled as if he suddenly spotted something highly amusing. The lack of other voices joining in told Javert that Montparnasse and Gueulemer were as confused as he was. Javert suppressed the urge to sneak a view from his hiding place. What was it that Thénardier suddenly found so funny?

He did not have time to ponder for long, for the answer came almost immediately after Thénardier regained his composure.

“Ah, but our plan is only good if we are dealing with a single old man, isn’t it? I do believe we need some modifications,” Thénardier said, and Javert was overcome with a dreadful feeing that this place was suddenly illuminated with only him left in the dark, and that Thénardier had seen through the shadows and was now speaking directly to him. “For who would’ve thought that an ex-con would enlist the help of the police?”

-

When they finished searching all the rooms on the second level, it was just after half past eleven.

As if on cue to help him decide the next course of action, Chabouillet heard voices downstairs. Thénardier’s voice was easily distinguishable. He could also make out two other voices.

“The Patron-Minette, they’re here,” Marcel whispered.

Chabouillet nodded. His earlier conjecture was correct. There was no one else in the upper levels. He didn’t know how long Thénardier would keep talking to his accomplices or how long he would be willing to wait until he realized Fauchelevent would not appear. But now was their chance to quickly check the third level for any sign of the girl.

“Quick, upstairs.” He turned to the gendarmes. “The others have entered and they are all downstairs. We will search for the girl on the third level. We no longer need to be stealthy and must hurry, but be careful still. If we find the girl, Marcel, watch over her. Otherwise, we will reconvene on this level. The two of you will stand ready by the staircase on the far side and I will take this staircase here. Be prepared to rush to the first level when the Patron-Minette attacks. The inspector will need reinforcement.”

Two voices piped up. “Yes, Monsieur.”

“There is another half an hour until midnight. That is how long we will have to search the third floor.” Chabouillet looked to ensure the gendarmes had understood. He nodded once, then gestured toward the stairs. “Let’s go.”

-

“A change of plan: we get rid of the coppers before we go find the old man. Fancy baiting some _railles_?”

“You bet, Boss!”

“Those damned _roussins_!”

Fear was Javert’s first reaction. Had he been discovered? But Thénardier and his men weren’t yet looking his way, so he pushed down his instinct to attack, for even if he could take out one of them through surprise, he would still be outnumbered two to one. He still needed the other two to get away from Thénardier.

His mind raced as the gang burst out in laughter. Azelma, then. In her attempt to get her father to abandon his plans, she must have let slip that the police was now involved. And why wouldn’t she? What she did was inconvenient for Javert, but entirely sensible as a daughter. What better way to deter a criminal by mentioning Inspector Javert?

Silently, he pulled out both his cudgel and his pistol.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Thénardier continued, “We should just shoot into the shadows and get rid of them now. But that wouldn’t be wise. For if the coppers have that old con’s money with them, I wouldn’t want the bank notes drenched in blood. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes, no blood on the money!”

“Of course not!”

Javert hid further into the shadows, trying to look for a way of escape. There was only a handful of hiding places inside this building that was so devoid of furniture. If he came out now, then all would be lost. Yet if they began shooting indiscriminately, he would be hit.

“So what do we do, Boss?”

Thénardier gave no answer. There was a series of shuffing noises, then the sound of a flint being struck, and suddenly the place was alit with lanterns. Javert sank further back into the protruding wall, careful not to as much as breathe too loudly. He was barely concealed now that the shadows were gone.

“Now, we chat with our visitor.”

Confident steps first sounded away from him, then toward the back of the room. Javert gripped his weapons tighter. There weren’t many hiding places. He would soon be found. It was too early yet for Chabouillet to realize he needed to come down. He stifled a laugh bubbling up from his chest. So this was his end, caught like Absalom dangling at his place of death. It was fitting: Absalom was a traitor to both his fellow men and to the law. Just like him.

The footsteps grew louder, then stopped. He had been found.

“Ah, what an honor it is to have Inspector Javert himself grace us with his presence!”

The first thing Javert saw was a pistol aimed at him. The second, Thénardier’s face. Thénardier jerked his pistol in an upward motion that said _come out_ , and under the circumstances, Javert could do nothing but comply. “The guillotine awaits you,” he spat. “You won’t get away this time, Thénardier.”

“Why, hello to you too, Inspector. I’m surprised that the Prefecture tolerates such rudeness in its officers.” He tilted his head toward the center of the floor. “Drop your weapons, then walk with your hands raised. Go stand over there. No tricks, Javert. Or I will shoot.”

Javert wondered briefly if he should risk the pistol’s chance of misfiring, but thought better of it. The cocking of the pistol had given the correct _click_. This time, he wouldn’t be so lucky.

Dropping his cudgel and pistol, he raised his hands above his head, rose from his crouching position, and walked.

“Oho! Inspector Javert, obeying my orders! Now this is a moment to savor. Too bad you won’t live long enough to remember this.”

“ _You_ will not live long enough to further break the law,” he snarled, and Thénardier only laughed.

“Inspector Javert, always droning on and on about the law! I must say, I absolutely won’t miss you when you’re gone. Good riddance, I say.” Thénardier’s eyes narrowed. “But first, let’s tend to business. Hand over the money. I know you have it, you’re here in that old criminal’s place—oh dear, was that a slip of tongue? You do know, don’t you, that Fauchelevent is a _convict_?”

Javert growled. “He’s a good man!”

“A convict, and he has you fooled!” Thénardier clapped his hands as he spoke, and Javert stood still. The random movements of a pistol waving about at him were more dangerous than when it was aimed at him with precision. Several long seconds passed before Thénardier’s hand was once again steady, but he was excited still. There was a gleam of utter glee in his beady eyes. “I did research, Inspector. Fauchelevent is really Jean Valjean. Does the name sound familiar to you? Ha! You’ve been helping a _convict_. Now hand over the money!”

“He’s a good man!” Javert shouted. He didn’t know why it mattered, now, to defend Valjean’s honor. Thénardier was not the sort to know goodness, and most certainly he would not know the power of a changed life. But seeing the pistol pointed at him, realizing that he was trapped of his own device by sending his reinforcements away, it felt significant somehow that he needed to declare the virtue of Jean Valjean before this truth would be lost to the world forever.

“Denial won’t get you any favors, Inspector. Let me guess: he had you feeling bad for him with his tale of a lost daughter, and you failed to do the proper research on the man’s identity. Oh! To think that I once thought you aren’t swayed by appearances! Just because someone looks gentlemanly and kind doesn’t mean he doesn’t have a rotten core. You’re just like the rest of them coppers. Oh, how I’m disappointed…”

“Shut it!” Javert yelled, and Thénardier gasped as he pretended to wipe away nonexistent tears, wiping away also all emotions from his face. It appeared that his patience was running out.

“The money,” Thénardier demanded, his voice cold and all traces of mock amusement gone. Javert felt the presence of two men approaching from behind, cutting off any chance of escape. He darted his eyes around the deserted place. So this was the end. As soon as he handed the money over—or spat his refusal and have the notes forcibly taken from him—he would become fodder to the pistol.

Javert allowed one last hope to flare in his heart. Perhaps Chabouillet would realize the error of his plan and would come to his aide. They never spoke of what should happen after the Secrétaire finished searching the upper levels. If he stalled, if he could wait until help would come…

“I want answers. Where is the girl?”

“Stalling, Inspector? It won’t help. We already know there are other coppers searching this building. And we’ve prepared quite a surprise for them, didn’t we, boys?” Laughter, or what passed as sounds of amusement, assaulted his ears from behind. Something wasn’t right. The voices were deep. Too deep. And for the duller one, his earlier words were too coherent… “They won’t make it down here until it’s too late. Haven’t you realized yet, Javert, what you’re standing in?”

He looked down. Under the firelight, he could see it. The floor was wet. And it wasn’t water. Horrified, he spun around by instinct, seeking to find a way to the door. He was met with two faces.

Jeering at him was a thin, propery dressed man—the former head of the Patron-Minette—and a tall, dark-skinned man.

They were not Montparnasse and Gueulemer.

-

By the time he broke into a third empty room, Chabouillet was resigned to the possibility that they would not be able to recover the girl tonight. It was consistent with Javert’s deduction and his own conclusion drawn from reading Thénardier’s second note to M. Fauchelevent. He paused at a window to check his pocket watch. Fifteen minutes had past.

“Next room.” He motioned to the boys standing guard outside the door. He heard them kick open the door of the adjacent chamber.

“Monsieur le Secrétaire!” one of them shouted, and he rushed toward the door. The voice was shocked, with a hint of alarm but no panic—so neither gendarme was in danger. Could they have found the girl?

Whatever he was expecting, whether Mademoiselle Fauchelevent or some other hostages that the Patron-Minette had captured, it wasn’t this.

“To the first level! Now!” Chabouillet barked.

He didn’t need a second glance. Even darkness couldn’t mask what he knew to be two dead bodies. The moonlight shining through the winow showed him what he needed to know: if someone had deposited Montparnasse and Gueulemer here, then the two other men downstairs with Thénardier could not possibly be them.

-

“You think I didn’t see that boy’s naked ambition, that good-for-nothing Montparnasse? I get rid of my rivals, Inspector.”

“Ah, do not think me stupid. I know when to bring backup. Babet here, now he’s a loyal one. And here’s the creole. Homère Hogu, this is Inspector Javert. Have you met?”

“Oh, Gueulemer? A pity. But a battle must have its casualties, don’t you agree?”

“Enough! Where’s my money? I don’t suppose that Jean Valjean is foolish enough to send you here without the ransom?”

“Why should I be quiet? Oho! Is what I’m thinking true? Inspector Javert, hiding a criminal in secret? So you do know Jean Valjean’s true identity!”

“Now hand over the money, or I drop the lantern!”

-

Fire. Fire everywhere. What words he could make out from the first floor were now swallowed by the crackling of dry wood being licked up in flames. Chabouillet could hear Thénardier’s cackles—they were getting farther away—and the handful of pistol shots that punctuated the air let him know that the boys had managed to make it ouside and were engaged in scuffles with the Patron-Minette. Someone screamed. The voice was thick and deep. His heart eased a little. Not Georges or Marcel.

“Javert?” he shouted. He couldn’t see anything. Smoke was spreading toward him, advancing from the stairways on both sides. There was no way down; the first level was engulfed entirely in flames. He looked out the windows. The second level wasn’t too high above-ground. He must jump out now, or he would be overtaken by the fire.

“Javert!” he tried again. No answer. Could sound penetrate the dense smoke and roaring flames? He pulled out his cudgel and broke a windowpane. Glancing down, he could see Georges and Marcel taking down a Patron-Minette member—Babet, if he wasn’t mistaken, so Thénardier had recruited him back into his fold—and a larger, dark-skinned man was lying in a pool of blood, groaning. Further away from the building, a white-haired man had Thénardier pressed to the ground by the shoulders with one hand. The man then landed a blow to Thénardier’s skull using his other hand, merciless and sure and with the ferocity of a provoked bear. He recognized him at once: Fauchelevent. Suddenly, the mild-mannered gentleman transformed into the very definition of hatred in the blink of an eye, and Chabouillet shuddered, disbelieving. Could even the rage of a parent boil over into such violence? Fauchelevent struck Thénardier once more, and this time, the struggling man went limp. The old man then rose to his feet, lifting Thénardier and swinging his body over his shoulder as if he weighed but a single stone. His steps were sure but for a slight drag of his right foot as he approached Georges and threw Thénardier down next to the injured Patron-Minette member. Chabouillet frowned. A man of his age, with such strength and physical prowess…. _A criminal_. Thénardier’s voice rang in his ears. _Jean Valjean… true identity_.

He knew that name, remembered a very stubborn inspector harping on the escaped convict’s case, insisting that Jean Valjean was alive and evading the law. Could it be? Could Fauchelevent be Jean Valjean? Did Javert find him at last?

At the thought of the inspector, Chabouillet yelled out his name again. No answer still. He coughed, his lungs seizing with the sudden inhalation of smoke. He couldn’t wait any longer. Stepping onto the window sill, Chabouillet looked to the ground below. Babet was down and Georges was in the process of cuffing him. Marcel was yelling. He followed the boy’s eyes. Fauchelevent had ripped Thénardier’s clothing and wrapped it around his mouth and nose; he then stripped Babet of his fine outercoat—with such force that the sleeves ripped through the manacles—and blanketed himself with it. Then, without even a moment of hesitation, Fauchelevent ran toward the building, toward the fire.

“Stop it, Monsieur! You’re going to get yourself killed!” Marcel shouted. Chabouillet’s heart sank. So it was true. Javert was still inside…

Heat was creeping up from behind him. He must jump now. Javert perishing was already a great loss to the Prefecture, he must not also die in the line of duty.

He glanced to his right. Not far from the window, there was a tree.

Chabouillet jumped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to show that the police really didn't have a good plan (with Javert trying too hard to protect Valjean) while the Patron-Minette was more or less imploding from within. I haven't forgotten about Cosette. She just needed to not be caught up in all these men's stupidity :-p
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


	16. In Which All Mortals Must Face Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermaths of the Patron-Minette raid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter grew longer and longer as I kept tinkering with it, so I decided to split what happens next into two chapters. (And to think that when I first started, I thought this story would wrap up in just a few installments!)

“Javert, you’re awake!”

Javert slowly opened his eyes. He was lying in a bed, in an unfamiliar surrounding. He blinked rapidly, trying to get rid of the fuzziness that clouded his vision. A face was looking down at him. It was a kind one. He knew that face…

“Your hair,” he mumbled. It didn’t make sense. He was seeing Valjean’s face, but the man’s hair was shorn. Why would a free man take on again the mark of a convict? The man’s brows had also thinned out.

Valjean smiled. “Do not worry, the fire did not damage your hair.”

The fire.

Fragments of what happened returned to him. Thénardier, Babet, Hogu. Money ripped away from his inner pocket. The lantern dropping. Jumping through a gap between his two bodyguards, rolling away from the burning fluid just in time. Fire and smoke everywhere. Hiding, backing himself into an alcove. Seeing Georges and Marcel but they didn’t see him. Too much fire. Everyone outside. Throwing his coat over himself. Waiting. Waiting for the fire to claim him. Waiting for the smoke to darken his lungs and choke away his life. Coughing. Not enough air. Fire approaching. Nowhere to hide…

_Someone breaks through the door, sending in a draft, fueling the fire. Or maybe the frame of the door has finally collapsed. He doesn’t know which._

_“Cosette?” A voice. It is muffled, as if the person is pinching his nose. He knows this voice. “Cosette!”_

_“Not here –” He coughs. He doesn’t know for how long. He hopes he’s loud enough to be heard._

_“Javert? Oh God… Javert, where are you?”_

_“They don’t –” More coughs. How is it possible that he hasn’t yet heaved up his lungs? “– don’t have her.”_

_There. He’s said everything he needs to say. He must now keep silent. This way, the smoke won’t get in, and he’ll cheat death for several more minutes._

_“Javert? Keep talking!”_

_“Go away!”_

_“Hang on. I’ll get you out of here!”_

_He tries to say no, but instead he coughs. The tail of his coat catches fire. He flings it away from him. It falls on a patch of fire, temporarily slowing down its advance toward him. What happens when his body catches fire? He cannot molt out of his skin…_

_He wants Valjean to save him. He doesn’t want Valjean to save him. That fool. He’ll die. But he always survives, doesn’t he? That’s what Jean Valjean does. Stays alive. Saves people. Never asks if anyone wants to be saved…_

_His eyes sting. Can’t blink away the smoke. Not any better shut. It’s everywhere. Blackness. So much blackness._

_And then blackness claims him._

 

Javert looked up at Valjean now, and nothing but the word _saint_ came to mind.

“I suppose I should thank you,” he said, almost grudgingly. He should be groveling at his savior’s feet. But he was alive, again, when he shouldn’t be, and he couldn’t quite muster up the strength to pretend to be grateful.

Valjean smiled nonetheless. “Thank God. He protected us both.”

He belatedly noticed Valjean’s bandaged hand. Of course. Nobody rushing into a blazing fire would escape unscathed, not even Jean Valjean. The man was wearing loose clothes. How many more bandages was he concealing? In comparison, Javert felt no bandages on his person, felt no pain save for the low-level ache that accompanied his every breath. Once again, he was whole at Valjean’s expense.

He did his best to glare. “You are wounded. You shouldn’t be out of bed. It is I who should be checking on you. I am uninjured –”

“Falling into a coma isn’t uninjured, Javert.”

“But I am awake now! And you –”

“My body will mend. In fact, my burns are already healing. The doctors did not order to confine me here. I will be fine.”

“Then those doctors are fools!” Javert protested. “Just look at your hand…”

It was then that he realized Valjean’s other, uninjured hand was chained to the bed.

His eyes snapped up. “What –”

“Rest, Javert. We’ll speak of that later.”

Valjean, in cuffs. There would be no later.

“What did they do to you?” he demanded, and suddenly he was bolted upright in his bed, his back against the thin headboard. His head protested, but he ignored the sudden flare of pain. His hand flew to the ring around the bed post and he was pulling, tugging, weak fingers slipping away from unyielding metal as he managed nothing at all to free Valjean of his predicament. The metal made clanging noises. The noises traveled through his ears and pounded stakes into his skull.

Valjean was subdued, watching him, not saying anything. He yanked and twisted some more, as if half-expecting this to be a trick of the eye. Nothing.

“Javert.” A gentle coaxing, spoken with the practiced ease of a father employing this tone to both placate and scold. And more effective than any recitation from the Penal Code, this impossible gentleness stayed his hand. The clanging in his head ceased.

“Monsieur le Secrétaire is treating me well. He keeps me in the cellar of the Prefecture during nights and allows me to visit you during the day. Until the present case is closed, I will not be transferred out of there.”

The cellar of the Prefecture was the location of the holding cells…

“No!”

A bandaged hand clasped over his own.

“Hush, Javert. It is not your fault. None of this is your doing. I am grateful that you tried as hard as you did to find Cosette…” —he did not miss the sob that Valjean had to choke back at the mention of his daughter— “but since she’s now lost for good, there is nothing left for me in Paris. Inspector, I am ready.”

He wanted to scream a thousand words, make ten thousand protests, but all he could utter was another “no” as his head suddenly felt too heavy and the world around him started to tilt. _No_ , he thought to himself, too weary to vocalize the word again, and then everything went black.

 

The next time he woke, Valjean was gone.

“Monsieur le Secrétaire,” Javert forced out, struggling to sit. The hospital room was no longer spinning around him, but he only succeeded in raising his body into a half-reclining, half-sitting position. “How long –”

“Three days,” Chabouillet answered. His tone was neutral, efficient, and Javert could not tell if he was displeased. After what had transpired, with Valjean… the Secrétaire had every right to march him directly into the cellar as well. “The doctor said you are not injured beyond inhaling smoke and suffering exhaustion from exposure to the flames. He expects you to be discharged within the next two days.”

His superior seemed to imply that he would be fit to return to duty upon his release. Could it be? His mind turned again to Valjean. If it was Chabouillet who made the arrest, then surely he knew about his betrayal to the law?

“Monsieur, when I leave here, I intend to submit my resignation.”

Chabouillet raised an eyebrow. “Again, Inspector? I thought I made it clear to you that any resignation would be promptly rejected. Your request is denied.”

“But Monsieur –”

“If this is about Jean Valjean, then we will discuss it later.”

Jean Valjean. Not Ultime Fauchelevent—the pretense was over. It was disconcerting, hearing the name spoken with so little care as if one were looking to the sky and commenting on the weather. Valjean was no longer Javert’s secret. He was no longer a secret at all.

Maybe his crime was too great. He wouldn’t be permitted to resign. He would be relieved of his duty, dismissed from his post. That would be a better justice.

But what was done to Valjean was not justice.

“Valjean, he –”

“He risked his life for you, yes. I cannot claim I understand it, but he accomplished the most out of us all that night. It was he who also captured Thénardier.” Chabouillet let out a chuckle. It was not improper, precisely, but Javert was expecting anger from the man, or perhaps hints of dismay at his own crime of consorting with and concealing a criminal. It did not make sense, how the Secrétaire still seemed to hold Valjean in high regard. “I wish you could have seen him, Inspector. I have never met a man more enraged than Monsieur Valjean, knocking all consciousness out of Thénardier. Though why wouldn’t he? At first I thought he was furious over the kidnapping of his daughter. But now that I know the full extent of their history, I can hardly blame him for claiming Thénardier as his own capture.”

Javert said nothing. Chabouillet now knew Valjean’s full history. This meant that there could be no proper course of action but arrest.

“You found him,” Chabouillet prompted, “after all these years.”

Yes, he did. And Javert wished he had never run into Jean Valjean at the barricade, never have his eyes opened to the goodness of a soul that, despite all his efforts, was still bound for condemnation.

“What will happen now?” he asked quietly.

Chabouillet observed him for some seconds, and Javert looked down at his fisted hands buried in the bedsheets, averting the too-penetrating gaze. The inspector part of his mind admonished that he ought to know the answer. Valjean would be ordered to stand trial, quickly condemned, and either sent to the Châtlet de Paris awaiting further transfer to one of the bagnes or sentenced to death. Nothing would change regardless of his or Chabouillet’s esteem for the man. The law must be enforced, no matter how wrong it now felt to him.

“Thénardier, Babet, and Hogu will stand trial next week. I expect all three of their condemnations to be swift. You will draw up a file for the pursuit and eradication of the Patron-Minette and keep it separate from the missing girl’s case. Add that to the existing files on the Patron-Minette. I will then forward your report to the Prefect and request a commendation for your work—do not look at me like that, Javert, you know your work has merited this honor.

“But I believe your question is not about the Patron-Minette. Upon your discharge from the hospital, you will return to duty. You will close out Mademoiselle Fauchelevent’s case. I will then take over all matters related to Jean Valjean from that point on.”

“The girl –”

“Do you still intend to search for a strand of hair in a sea of ink? We have already searched all plausible locations of her capture, and all the Patron-Minette members are either dead or apprehended. Keeping a case open based on vain hope is not sensible, Inspector.”

Chabouillet was, of course, correct. Yet Javert refused to give up, not when there was one more lead he could pursue…

“Please, Monsieur, let me try. I know other things about the girl. I know she escaped from Thénardier prior to Montparnasse and Gueulemer’s deaths. She has an amorous interest. She is intelligent, a survivor of past hardships. She of all the missing girls would know how to break free now that her captors are arrested –”

“And how do you know this, Inspector? Based on the claims of an overindulgent father? I too have children and think them more capable than they are in reality. It has been five days since Mademoiselle Fauchelevent’s disappearance. You know what this means for the likelihood of recovering someone alive.”

Javert fell silent, refusing to give voice to what he was taught—and what he had experienced from handling various missing person cases over the years—concerning victims of abductions. But this was different. Cosette was unharmed as recently as two nights ago. Azelma had no reason to lie to him. They still had time…

“Grant me two days, please. Then I will close the case.”

Chabouillet was looking at him again, and this time Javert could feel the suspicion. Perhaps the Secrétaire believed he was trying to delay the execution of justice against a convict? He considered what two days’ reprieve would mean for Valjean. In the long term, nothing. But two days more at the Prefecture’s holding cell meant two fewer days of torture ahead for him. This was the only small mercy he could offer.

“Monsieur, I will –”

“And what if you find the girl? Will you then return her to an empty home?” Chabouillet asked.

The image of a brokenhearted Cosette weeping over the loss of her father lodged uncomfortably in his mind, in his heart. The father whom she adored, whom she believed would come to her rescue, gone forever. What would that do to a young girl?

What would he do? Javert would do his duty, as he always had.

“I will see to it that she is reunited with the boy Valjean had intended to give the girl in betrothal. I know where this boy’s family lives. I can bring her there.”

For a long moment, Chabouillet did not respond, and Javert waited, daring to hope that his words may have convinced his patron. But he knew he had not grown to be so unyielding in following the law without guidance, without learning from one of Lady Justice’s best servants over the years. Chabouillet would never bend the law if it dictated that cases must be closed and convicts must be processed quickly to receive judgment. His patron had always managed to enforce the law with more humanity than he, but that did not make him less exacting where justice was required.

“You will close out Mademoiselle Fauchelevent’s case upon returning to work,” Chabouillet repeated, and this time, his tone carried a warning that he would not tolerate disobedience. “You may continue to investigate the girl’s whereabouts if and when all your other duties are completed. But it shall no longer be the focus of your work.”

Javert did not protest. It was fair; it was more than he would allow if he were to make the pronouncement in his patron’s place. And so it must be him to condemn Valjean one last time, relegating Cosette’s missing person case to _closed_ so that Valjean’s judgment could proceed.

“And for my crime of concealing a criminal, Monsieur?”

He chanced a glance at the Secrétaire. Chabouillet’s lips were pressed into a line. He was displeased, and Javert dipped his head again, letting the seconds pass by, awaiting judgment.

Then, he heard a snort. It was the sort with more contempt than amusement. Contempt—coming from his patron, the one person he looked up to most in the Prefecture, more than even the Prefect himself! He squeezed his eyes shut.

“Do you know, concealing a criminal was the very charge that Thénardier accused you of in front of me and the two gendarmes, when he was trying to bargain for his life?”

Javert went still. A criminal’s words were not credible. But both he and the Secrétaire knew that Thénardier’s words were true. He must face the consequences of his crimes. He must face the truth. Slowly, Javert opened his eyes.

Chabouillet’s face betrayed no emotion.

“Monsieur?”

“Since Jean Valjean conducted everything under a false identity, you are in no breach of the law for treating him as Ultime Fauchelevent. However, for your failure to properly inform your superiors of M. Valjean’s true identity…” Chabouillet trailed off, paused, and Javert did not dare to breathe too loudly. What would Chabouillet do? Would he arrest Javert while on duty, as soon as he finished closing out his present cases? The public humiliation would not be unjust, and Javert knew he would gladly endure it.

At length, Chabouillet continued, “You will be reassigned for the foreseeable future. When you return to duty, you will report directly to me.”

So Chabouillet had other things in mind to punish him professionally. His patron had always been a fair and upright man, and Javert knew that whatever consequences he must suffer would be just. To have lost Chabouillet’s favor was distressing. But compared to what Valjean must now endure, his burden was not nearly cumbersome enough. He deserved worse.

He lowered his gaze in acceptance. “Yes, Monsieur.”

A hand rested on his shoulder. “Get some sleep, Javert. God knows you won’t allow yourself a moment’s rest once you are released from this place. I will see you at the Prefecture when you are recovered.”

And with that, Chabouillet rose from his bedside and departed.

-

He would have been kept at the hospital, Jean Valjean was told, if he were a respectable citizen. But as a convict, the doctor and nurses only hastily dressed his wounds and returned him into police custody. They provided no salve to ease the aches of his burnt skins. The bandages on his hands and around his body were rough. There was contempt in every tying of linen to cover his marred skin, in every checking of pulse and temperature that was done too efficiently, too coldly. If his care weren’t demanded by the Secrétaire himself, he may not have received any examination at all.

Valjean did not consider this to be offensive. It was how convicts ought to be treated. It was all those years of being extended favor and respect that were false. And now that the pretense was over, his heart felt strangely free, relieved.

Oddly, Monsieur le Secrétaire—who ordered his arrest after asking him whether he was indeed the escaped convict Jean Valjean, to which he simply replied, “I am.”—still spoke to him kindly, using _vous_ and granting him the illusion of freedom by permitting him to wait by Javert’s bedside. Monsieur le Secrétaire acquired salves from the doctors and gave them to him. Monsieur le Secrétaire did not have him sent to the central prison along with Thénardier and the Patron-Minette members but confined him in the comfort of the Prefecture’s holding cell. And Monsieur le Secrétaire would regard him with an odd expression, as if he couldn’t quite uncover everything that was Jean Valjean, as if there was still something in him that was not yet exposed before the eyes of both God and the Law.

They had spoken several times since the Patron-Minette’s capture. The first time, he was treated as a witness, asked to provide details about that night so the Prefecture could complete the case. The two young gendarmes were present at the interrogation. They had looked uncomfortable, as if they didn’t know how to conduct themselves before someone who was both under the police’s protection and under arrest. But in the end, the Prefecture got the information they needed and Valjean was thanked—thanked!—for his cooperation.

The second time was between him and the Secrétaire, after he was taken to the hospital to change his bandages. Once the doctor and nurses were dismissed, Chabouillet set a thick file onto a small table by the bed. His file. He was asked to give a full account of his outstanding crimes, and so he did, beginning with robbing from the Bishop of Digne to assuming a false identity while living in Paris. In the end, the Secrétaire simply nodded and stood, guiding him to Javert’s bed and cuffing his uninjured hand to the bedpost. That was the day when Javert regained consciousness.

The final time, Monsieur le Secrétaire came into the cellar and asked about Javert. He did the best he could to show that Javert had acted in accordance to the law by all accounts, that Javert would have carried out the justice he deserved had he not forced Cosette’s disappearance onto the inspector. Chabouillet ended the meeting with an odd question, asking when was the last time the inspector had eaten. Valjean thought back to their meal of plums and peaches that he had all but forced on Javert. When he told the Secrétaire this, Chabouillet had grown displeased, muttering something about not taking good care of himself. This answer, more than the others he had provided, seemed to have incriminated Javert the most. Valjean felt guilty for having divided Toussaint’s meat and bread between them that day. He should have offered the entire portion to Javert.

And so aside from these interactions and the trips to and from the hospital, Jean Valjean was left to his own thoughts, the worst form of torture for the father of a lost child.

His mind drifted to the day when he and Cosette moved to Rue de l’Homme Armé—not a full week and yet it seemed like a lifetime ago. The move out of Rue Plumet was sudden, unexplained. He had simply expected Cosette to follow his wish. But Cosette was no longer a child, and he knew even as he first informed her they were moving that she did not take to the news well. He was too concerned for his safety at the time—such a selfish wretch he was!—to truly understand Cosette’s silence as the distress of a broken heart. They did not speak when they took supper that night, and when she retired to bed without as much as a kiss on the cheek and her usual, cheerful “Goodnight, Papa,” he should have known something was amiss.

But he was a self-centered, ungrateful brute. How often had he professed—to God in his prayers even—that Cosette meant more to him than anything! And yet his actions had spoken the very opposite, revealing the hypocrite that he truly was. Concern over himself had become more important to him than Cosette’s happiness. He had not even taken the time to find out the reason for her melancholy. And was it not already too late by then? For months, perhaps years, he had been pushing Cosette further away all in the name of protecting his darkest secrets, until she no longer wished to be with him and decided to venture into the peril of Paris on her own, to seek after the company of a man who truly cared for her.

Valjean buried his face into his hands, roughened skin touching both undamaged flesh and bandages, and choked back a sob. It was entirely his doing that Cosette was now lost. He was indeed the thief and liar that Javert accused him to be, stealing away Cosette’s happiness and now—he shuddered—robbing her of a happy future that she deserved.

He tried to raise his head, unsuccessfully, in a half-formed gesture of prayer. The eyes of God, ever watching, now crushed him. Tears flowed down his face; he made no effort to contain them. But he refused to turn his tears into a charade to beg for mercy from God. He had no right to God’s mercy when he had failed to extend love to someone entrusted under his protection. God had been his constant source of comfort, but he no longer deserved any, not when Cosette had been stripped of all comforts. If she was even –

_No! Dear God, please… please hear me, your most undeserving servant. Please let her still be alive._

The cellar of Paris’s Prefecture was empty of other prisoners tonight. Had there been other confined souls unfortunate enough to be privy to Valjean’s sobs, there would not have been a shred of doubt that this prisoner was crying not from fear, but from the final heavings of a heart that had broken to pieces and would soon crumble into ashes.

-

Javert was discharged from the hospital two days later. It was daytime, so he went directly to the Prefecture. Chabouillet greeted him with a nod while his colleagues stared and gaped. He knew that within the next hours rumors of his inability to die would spread throughout the Prefecture. First the barricades, then a blazing fire. He mentally added “the river” to the list. If he were to judge his mortality by evidence alone, perhaps he, too, would believe in the would-be rumors.

Ignoring his other unfinished cases that he knew would be reassigned to other inspectors, Javert wasted no time in composing his report on the night of the Patron-Minette’s capture. Words flowed quickly for him as he recounted his and Georges’ visits to the gang’s other known operating sites. He included his conclusion that the abandonment of the sites was a manifestation of the Patron-Minette deteriorating from within; he noted down several of his observations that should be followed up on, such as the stench of decay that may lead to a decomposing body. He then turned his attention to his encounter with Thénardier. He described the double-building warehouse and what occurred on the first level in great detail. He identified Babet and Hogu, whom he knew had already been captured. He ended with the fire, filling an entire sheet of paper with Valjean’s heroics. He excluded all references of Azelma.

Chabouillet accepted his report without comment. By the way the Secrétaire was looking at him, Javert knew he was dismissed. He could return home, to slowly rebuild his strength by resting and not overexerting himself. He did not see the benefit of leaving notes for whoever would be taking over his open cases; let them figure out the progress of each case and what must be done next. Of all the things he was known for, charitable was most certainly not a trait one would ascribe to Inspector Javert.

As he departed from his work station, however, Javert found himself walking toward the side of the Prefecture and down a stairway. He rarely had any occasion to descend to the cellar. But today, he needed to see the person responsible for his supposed immortality. He needed to know that Jean Valjean was still here.

“Inspector, you are recovered!”

Valjean was clearly glad to see him, the bars separating him from freedom did nothing to hide that damnable smile. But Javert was not fooled. Underneath that smile were a thousand sorrows. Valjean looked haggard, as if he hadn’t slept for days. Perhaps he hadn’t. As soon as the smile dimmed a bit, Javert could see the beginning of a frown tugging down at Valjean’s lips, as if that was now their accustomed position, set into place like the lines that seemed to have been etched permanently into that face. Jean Valjean didn’t simply look tired from a lack of rest, he was tired from the crushing weight of life.

Something in Javert’s chest clenched with a sharp stab of pain.

He had wanted to see Valjean, but now that the man was in front of him, he didn’t know what to say. He noticed someone had given Valjean a change of clothing—still loose, still hiding injuries that he knew neither the man nor Chabouillet would be willing to disclose. The small comfort of seeing Valjean treated with dignity while imprisoned was swallowed up by the sense of injustice that suddenly struck him. Here was a good man, the best he had ever known. And yet over and over again Javert had condemned this gleaming soul to a most horrible fate, first to strip a mayor of his prosperity and now depriving an old man of living out his days in peace with his daughter.

“Valjean, I…”

_I failed. I couldn’t protect you. I am a traitor. I’m sorry._

He approached the sole occupied holding cell, toward the patches of sunlight that kept the place illuminated through small openings carved from the top of the cellar walls. Valjean had stood up to greet him. The gesture revealed bandages around his calves. Just how much of his body had suffered burns?

“You saved my life.” _Again_. “You should not have.”

“I could not leave you inside the warehouse to die. You went in there for me, for Cosette.”

He shook his head. “It was by the Prefecture’s orders. It was my duty.”

“I thrust that duty upon you.”

“It is the duty of my profession. I protect France’s citizens.”

Valjean gave a sad smile, and Javert wished he would have chosen his words more carefully. What Valjean said next was not untrue, though he refused to acknowledge it. “I am a convict. I do not enjoy the same privileges as a free citizen.”

“You deserve them, to me,” he retorted, pointedly not dwelling on the meaning behind his words. Valjean was giving him an appraising look, the one he used to send his way when the mayor’s chief inspector did something unexpected like rescuing Madame Prud’homme’s cats from a tree, again. Javert did what he had always done: endure it stoically, looking at the mayor’s— _Valjean’s_ —jaw instead of his eyes.

They’d had several good years at Montreuil-sur-Mer, years that he hadn’t known to treasure. Those times felt like a lifetime ago now, too distant even for regret.

He began again, “Monsieur, I will do everything in my power to continue searching for Cosette.”

He lowered his head so as to not espy Valjean’s tears that would surely be collecting in his eyes. He noticed the trembling of the unbandaged hand.

“Thank you.”

He shook his head. “Do not thank me. In fact, I should be the one thanking you. Three times now, Valjean, you’ve saved my life three times. I – I can never repay you.”

“There is no debt between us.”

Javert remained quiet, letting the silence answer for him where his words coud not. There were mountains of debt between them, all owed by him to Valjean.

He looked Valjean up and down, concerned eyes roaming over each bandage and concealed wound, as if he were trying to remember what Jean Valjean looked like so he would have the image preserved in his mind for the years to come. His eyes rested on the top of the man’s head. Valjean’s hair had begun to grow back. Soon—if he were granted hard labor instead of death—they would shave everything off again.

“You need to take better care of yourself, Inspector.”

He followed the voice to curved lips, warm and kind in its projection of gentleness but completely serious in the underlying admonition. He supposed they could be mirrors of each other, Valjean and him. Both were reflecting back to the other an image of sunken eyes and stubbled jaw, of utter weariness settling like a second layer of skin onto hunched shoulders and lowered head. What did titles such as convict and inspector matter when they both seemed mere steps away from death’s door? Life was but a breath that was fading from their grasps with each passing day. If Valjean was sentenced to the gallows, then his final struggle would be no more than several minutes. And he, if he sought out the Seine again, would gasp and choke over the same amount of minutes, a futile sacrifice that would not repay even a mite of what was required of him.

He breathed still because Valjean had cut his ropes, had turned him from the bridge, had run into a building engulfed in flames to pull him out.

He shouldn’t be breathing. He didn’t deserve to feel the beatings of his heart. He had no right. He should –

“Javert.”

He looked at Valjean, as a dog that had recognized its master’s voice would.

“Promise me you will never seek out death again.”

He shuddered; Jean Valjean could read minds.

Valjean pressed on: “You believe there is unsettled debt between us? Very well. Then I demand payment from you by commending your life to God. I may never see you again. So grant me this assurance, please. Let me know that I have not saved your life in vain.”

 _And what of your life?_ he wanted to exclaim, but even in his cruelest moment he would not suffer Valjean to ponder the possibility of his life being cut short days from now. The king may have been merciful to Mayor Madeleine once, but would he care for an escaped convict and repeated offender, an unknown named Jean Valjean? And so he nodded mutely, not giving thoughts to whether he had just told an unspoken lie. The relief washing over Valjean’s face struck like a knife into his chest. For this alone, he could not betray the man’s trust again.

“Also, I want to thank you.”

Of all the things he expected Valjean to say…

“You are not serious!”

“I am.”

“What do you have to thank me for?” He gestured at the cellar around him. “You are back in a cell, back where you’ve spent your entire life running away from. You’ve lost your home, your freedom, your daughter –”

“That’s exactly my reason, Javert. You’ve tried. I spent a lot of time thinking. I knew your goal as an inspector was to capture Thénardier, but you never gave up on trying to find Cosette. When it became clear that she was lost, you still persisted, bringing the others with you so that they could search for her.

“Please know this, Javert. I too am indebted to you, for your efforts. My heart… I do not believe I have one left now that all hope of seeing my dear Cosette again is gone. But for honoring my request to do all you could do to bring Cosette home, I… thank you.”

Why was he being thanked? “Don’t,” he said, pleading. “Don’t, Valjean, please. I’ve done nothing deserving of your thanks.”

“But you did. You kept your promise. You exhausted every possibility for Cosette. I am expendable, Javert. My only wish was to know that we’ve done everything we could. And you did.” Valjean was looking at him with gratitude, eyes brimming with kindness, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. But there was also sadness there, and he knew Valjean would be grieving every day for the rest of his life.

It was this display of utter absurdity that held Javert in place, like a _gamin_ too frightened by the glare of a terrifying policeman to flee, and he was helpless to escape from Valjean. Here he stood, his failures fully exposed, the true extent of his betrayal shown before his very eyes, and he was _thanked_ for it?

This was not how things should have come to pass. He should be dead, and Jean Valjean should be living in freedom. He should be dead, and Valjean should be enjoying the company of his daughter at this very moment. He should be dead.

But he couldn’t. Not anymore. Now that he’d promised.

“Javert?”

The sound bored dully into his cottoned mind, and he couldn’t understand why there was no anger in the speaking of his name, no convict’s snarl or a good man’s pointed disappointment. The voice was repeating itself, gentler and with more concern, and it took his minds several seconds to realize that he was shaking, that his knees were buckling, and then suddenly there was no longer any distance between himself and the floor. His body seized along with the burning sensation in his lungs that had nothing to do with inhaling too much smoke, and he was breathing too loudly, making strange heaving noises that sounded like thunder inside his skull.

He was on all fours like a beast. Perhaps this was appropriate, this gesture of homage paid to the best man he had ever known. He was too proud to bend to the Mayor once, too filled with self-righteousness to condemn the imposter to fail to notice that if Jean Valjean ever falsely impersonated anyone since his release from Toulon, then it was a saint pretending to live as a commoner. This saint was too blind to his own worth to shrug off the skin of a convict that no longer belonged to him. And now Valjean was forced to put on this skin again, all because of him.

“Please, Valjean… Monsieur… don’t. You shouldn’t be thanking me. I…”

 _I’m so sorry_ , he wanted to say. But he didn’t want to be forgiven; he didn’t deserve what he knew Valjean would so readily give. And so he gave up on the control he had forced upon himself since childhood and surrendered to the endless waves of sobs, choosing to stubbornly hold back his words lest he gave Valjean the opportunity to grant him absolution.

“Javert.”

When he heard his name again, he felt as if hours had passed—perhaps they had. For he was quiet again, his tears dried and crusted over his eyes, and weariness fell over him like an ox’s yolk, pinning him to the floor.

“Javert,” the voice spoke again, and the subordinate in him understood the authority in that tone. But it wasn’t unkind.

He felt a hand on his shoulder. Valjean, he thought, before his head jerked up at the impossibility of his assumption. Who –

“Go home, Inspector. This is an order.” Chabouillet was looking down at him like a king pitying his subject. The hand gave his shoulder a squeeze, and suddenly Javert was looking not at Monsieur le Secrétaire but at his patron, the closest to a mentor that he would admit to ever having. He opened his mouth, intending to indicate that he had heard. But his throat was constricted. What a sight he must be, caught kneeling before a criminal and now gaping at his superior. It was just as well that he had no more pride left in him to be shredded into tatters.

“I…” he managed to squeeze out, but didn’t know what to say. Admit that he had gone insane? Beg for mercy on behalf of Valjean? Attempt to resign yet again?

Chabouillet didn’t wait for him to recover from muteness. “Go. I need to speak with the prisoner. You are dismissed.”

In the end, it was Chabouillet who reached his arms under Javert’s to lift him onto his feet. It was also Chabouillet who guided him to the door and gave his back a small push to help him take his final stumbling steps across the threshold. But it was Valjean’s gaze that he felt as he took each labored step away from him, his back to a good man, his final betrayal complete.


	17. In Which Life Must Go On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Contending with reality is no easy task for anybody.

Javert returned to his own quarters. The porter held out his hand as he gave him a replacement key, a put-upon expression on his face. The man stood strategically in front of his apartment’s door—the meaning of his position was clear. Javert couldn’t find the strength in him to care, but did he have any money? He didn’t recall the hospital handing him a list of outstanding payments when he was released. He was injured on duty; the Prefecture must have covered the cost. But the Prefecture’s generosity did not extend into his personal life, and Javert found himself to be in a predicament. The porter looked every bit as if he would follow him into his apartment like a stray cat, meowing and priming about, waiting for warm milk. Well, he had neither milk nor _sou_ in his home.

Without knowing what he was trying to find, he dug a hand into his pocket. His fingers brushed against something hard: the two golden Napoleons that Valjean had deposited in there several days ago. Of course. Chabouillet must have had the hospital retrieve his clothing for him yesterday, for how else could he explain his own outer coat draped over the hospital chair along with a spare set of clothes, or that the porter knew to expect his return and make a new key ahead of time, so eager was he to squeeze out from him some ill-deserved profit?

He fisted his hand inside the pocket. The coins burned his skin like molten coal, like Judas’s thirty silver coins. Javert didn’t look at them, couldn’t. In one swift motion, he dumped the Napoleons with his porter. The man’s eyes bulged and his mouth proceeded to open and close like that of a landed fish. Javert brushed past the fool and stabbed his new key into the keyhole. He gave it a violent twist. At least the sound of the door slamming shut behind him was satisfying.

In the summer heat, he felt cold. One spoonful of his landlady’s stew did nothing to warm him up; he pushed away the rest. He drew shut all of the window curtains—the entire place was still too bright, the cheer in the air too damning. He entered into his bedchamber and fell heavy onto the bed, feeling exhausted. He didn’t think he could get up again. He didn’t want to exist anymore. He sought oblivion.

Javert slept.

-

“You do not have to sign this. But if you do, perhaps the Prefect would advocate for leniency on your behalf.”

Reaching a hand through metal bars, Valjean took the paper from Monsieur le Secrétaire. It had all been explained to him the day before: to proceed with his case, Jean Valjean must be reclassified from “deceased” to “recaptured.” The Secrétaire had completed all the necessary paperwork to forward his file to higher authority. This one remaining item was entirely up to his choice.

Valjean scanned through the document—the listing of all his outstanding crimes, his full confession. There was his theft of the silver coin from Petit Gervais, an offense that he’d only just found out had been reported to the local police after all, two days after his departure from Digne. That crime was preceded by a rather lengthy description of his robbery from the Bishop; the Secrétaire had included the part where the Bishop turned the stolen silver into a gift, nulling any robbery charge against him. Valjean thought this an unnecessary detail. Had he been permitted to pen his own confession, he would have listed two crimes that resulted: theft and letting his thievery go unreported. But he dared not question what the Secrétaire had written, and so he perused through the rest of his charges—there was another lengthy section on his years as mayor that read more like an account of his achievements than an admission of living under a false identity—and looked to the bottom of the paper, where a string of formal words testifying to the truth contained in the document was followed by a space for him to put his name.

If he signed, his own signature would damn him. He would forfeit all possibility to plea his innocence; there would be no turning back. But he knew he wasn’t innocent, and he had no intention to continue his deception now that Jean Valjean would be made alive again in the eyes of the law. He swallowed hard, forcing down the lump gathering at his throat.

“I will sign it.”

Nodding, Chabouillet handed him a pen and he signed, sealing his fate as a recaptured convict hoping for what he knew he did not deserve. It was a gamble, he was well aware of it, to seek to escape death by becoming un-dead. But it had been a strange relief these past few days to live under his true name again, and this was one honor he decided to never give up for as long as both God and the Law deemed proper for him to live.

“I will discuss your case with the Prefect posthaste,” Monsieur le Secrétaire said, turning to leave the cellar. Valjean followed him with his eyes, his heart quickening its pace as he realized that there was nothing left for him to do but wait.

Chabouillet paused when he reached the door. “You are a good man, Monsieur Valjean. The matter is now out of my hands. I regret I cannot do more for you under the confines of the law.”

Before he could respond, the Secrétaire stepped through the door and Jean Valjean was left alone again.

-

Javert slept past the afternoon and through the night, waking almost an entire day later when the sun was already past its peak position. He groaned, struggling to sit up in his bed, rubbing a hand against his temple to stifle the headache that never truly went away.

It was too late to report to the Prefecture, and Javert was certain that Chabouillet’s order would permit him to stay away for another day. He heaved his legs onto the floor with great effort, feeing dizzy as his body sought to achieve balance in an upright position. He forced his gaze onto a fixed spot on the floor until the world around him stopped spinning, until his lungs learned to take in sufficient air proportionate to the amount of labored breaths that he was gasping. Reason told him that his feet were planted on the floor and he would not fall, but his mind didn’t much feel like listening to reason at the moment. He was all instinct and sensation: he felt on the verge of weeping, he was hungry, there was a heaviness in his groin. He fumbled for his chamber pot and took a long piss. He was thirsty.

He ignored his bodily demands as he tried to put on Inspector Javert, forcing himself to stand. His stomach gave a loud growl at the same time, mocking him for his hypocrisy. He may have gone to bed a man last night, but he most certainly woke up today as a beast. Perhaps he should yield to this true self that he had refused to acknowledge all these years and simply fall. Or perhaps he had already fallen, fallen like he did on his hands and knees yesterday, his proper station in life before good men like Chabouillet and Jean Valjean.

The world tilted around him again and Javert found himself on the floor bending over the chamber pot, his stomach emptying bile into piss. He watched with a strange sense of focus that suddenly overcame him: the clear liquid was diluting the content’s color into a murky shade of yellow, but the bitter-sour aftertaste that was burning his throat seemed to have traveled into the pot, creating a dangerous potion that both looked and reeked like utter filth. Something slid down his face and dripped from his chin into the pot, and he realized he was drenched in sweat. He was coughing now, his lungs hurting like they did that night. But instead of smoke blackening those lungs, blackness now covered his heart, and no amount of coughing, vomiting, or pissing could purge away this particular inner grime that had seeped like spilled ink into his innards, poisoning him beyond hope of a remedy.

He slumped his head against the bed, feeling through shut eyes the spinning of his surroundings and the trembling of his body. Maybe he should crawl back into bed. Or maybe he could finish the stew that he had left uneaten yesterday and then crawl back into bed. Confining himself to a state of uselessness seemed proper. He hadn’t been anything but a failure lately. Maybe the dizziness he was experiencing was due to misplaced zealousness in trying to belong to a world he no longer deserved to be part of. The world spun on but had refused to take him along, stranding him in the center of a whirlwind, pulling up the earth beneath and ripping the sky above away from him. Javert laughed, his own hoarse voice grating on his nerves. He should be dead, the mantra started in his head again. _I should be dead._

He looked mournfully at his pillow. He could lift himself several inches and roll onto the bed. His eyelids still felt heavy enough to return to sleep, to a tortured oblivion. He wondered if one’s soul could give out during slumber. If the burden that now crushed his soul became too great to bear in his dreams, then perhaps when he gave himself over to sleep this time, he would no longer wake up.

_Promise me you will never seek out death again._

Javert groaned, the loud agony of a life he hated but could not discard—had lost the right to discard. No, he must not seek oblivion. It would not be honoring the bargain he had struck with Valjean, and he owed that man too much—suffering hell on earth was too small a price to pay. And so with great effort, Javert placed both palms flat on his bed and forced his weight into his arms. Taking labored breaths, he pushed himself up until he stood on shaky legs. He remained still to regain his bearings.

He may be a beast, but this beast still had a duty to fulfill. If it would take the last of his strength to find Cosette, then he would gladly give his very life to bring the girl home.

-

The sun’s rays were beginning to lose the worst of their heat by the time Javert made himself presentable and suffered through his landlady’s insistence on feeding him the equivalent of all the meals he had missed over the past week. The interlude brought strength back to his body and clarity to his mind, but each time Jean Valjean surfaced to his thoughts, a sense of emptiness would wash over him, and Javert was once again the wretch kneeling before his saint, helpless to change reality and refusing to be comforted.

He abruptly stood and left his apartment, finding his quarters suddenly too stifling. He let his legs wander as his mind drifted from noisy thought to noisy thought, not thinking deeply about anything. He retraced the familiar steps of his patrol paths. He walked through gardens. He strolled in circles like a lost dog. He walked among crowds and advanced alone in deserted streets. He walked without direction. He walked until the sun started to turn a glorious red-orange. He looked up. He had ended up at Rue de l’Homme Armé, No. 7.

He drew the cord, imitating what Valjean did once. The porter, whether careless or lazy, granted him entrance without even a head peering through the adjacent window. Though why would he? No one but this building’s tenants would want to come here. Valjean had chosen this place for its isolation and general undesirability, after all. He let himself inside, glancing up at the flight of stairs before him, and without warning, the full weight of reality assaulted his mind. Javert froze, unable to block away imaginations of a white-haired man and his daughter ascending and descending, with love in their eyes and laughter echoing in the corridors. He still remembered how this place whispered of _home_ inside Valjean’s apartment, a humble place lit up by love. Valjean had trusted him enough to allow him to spend a night here, _that night_ , after the Seine and the Pont au Change. And this foolish trust, this thrice-damned saintly trust that should never have been extended in place of a gunshot or a stab of the knife, had cost Valjean everything he had, for now both the old man and the girl were lost.

Javert stood for some minutes. The porter still did not appear. He sighed, berating himself for this pointless trip. He shouldn’t have come here. He walked back outside, letting the door close softly behind him.

As he walked away, Javert felt the strange sensation of being watched. Doubtless the porter had finally become suspicious and decided to look out of the window. What was the man seeing at this moment, what could he tell from the backside of a stranger walking away with a heavy heart? He didn’t much care. Any assessment upon his person would be too generous when compared to the truth.

He walked with increasingly brisk steps. Evening was approaching. He had wasted the day away and must now begin to fulfill his promise.

-

The remnant of twilight still lit the growing shadows of Paris when Javert arrived at the building. In the fading last light of the day, the place looked less abandoned than it had appeared in complete darkness, more habitable than when he and Georges first visited. Javert wondered if this was why people had been willing to spend the occasional night here, to prefer dilapidated shelter over harsh winter nights or plague-infested summer eves at the gutters, if only to hold onto some temporary illusions of comfort and possession.

As he neared the building, Javert felt again the sensation of being watched. He welcomed the exposure, for by his count, there was only one person remaining who had a claim, no matter how dubious, to this place.

And this was the person he sought.

He walked up to the door and knocked. He wasn’t here as inspector but as an investigator who had promised a father to search for his daughter. To do so, he needed help from another daughter who had been torn away from her father. This daughter did not flinch even when a pistol was pointed at her once. He would have to be patient and persistent—and humble, he reminded himself—if he were to receive any answers. Patience, persistence, and humility, words that described the very opposite of Inspector Javert. It was all for Valjean’s sake.

He waited another minute before knocking again.

Just as he was about to knock for a third time, the front door of the former operating site of the Patron-Minette gang swung open, revealing hostile eyes and a chin stuck out in resolve, pure defiance reverberating in the space between them.

“You’re not welcome here,” Azelma said coldly, at the same time when Javert took his hat into his hand and forced out a polite, “Mademoiselle.”

The door was being slammed shut. Having already anticipated such a move, Javert raised an arm and pushed his free hand against the door, keeping it open.

Azelma let out a sound laced with indignation. “This house may be in shambles, but it’s _my_ house. And if I say you aren’t welcome here, then you’re trespassing.”

He fought the urge to snap back, to question the validity of common inheritance practices when the previous squatter was a criminal. This was no time to start an argument. He knew he was an unwelcome guest. The girl was brought face-to-face before none other than the person responsible for ripping away the last of her family. Azelma had spoken truth: this house was now hers, because there was no one left.

And so he conceded that he had no right to seek her out. But he must, and so Javert funneled more strength to the hand pushing open the door and drew himself to his full height, making as if he intended to force his way inside.

Reacting by instinct, Azelma crossed her arms—Javet recognized it as her defensive gesture—and the sudden loss of force fighting against his hand caused the door to be pushed fully open, crashing into a wall with a loud bang. Thus granted entrance, the inspector in Javert pounced and took over. He looked down at Azelma and smirked, a dangerous warning promising dire consequences if she refused to cooperate. Below him, Azelma had gone pale. Yet even so, she resisted the urge to take a step back, and Javert felt his lips twisting into a genuine smile of their own volition. Azelma was as brave as she was resilient, and she reminded him of a young Toulon guard who against all odds had managed to hold his own despite the worst of the galley slaves seeking to intimidate the fresh-faced new blood.

He forced calm onto himself. “Where is Cosette Fauchelevent?”

Azelma scowled. “I told you. I don’t know.”

“But you know the person who knows.”

Silence was accompanied by eyes seeking to avert his gaze. These were signals enough to confirm his suspicions.

“Bring me to him.”

Azelma tilted back her head and laughed. “Am I an idiot to you, Inspector? Why should I help you? Or better yet, why should I trust you? No, I will only lead one person to Cosette. Where is he, anyway, that old man? I thought you’re a smart copper. You know you have no bargaining power without Fauchelevent. Bring him to me and stay out of my way, and maybe I will help him reunite with his daughter –”

“Where is he?” Javert snarled, anger exploding behind his eyes, blinding him with flashes like burning stars. “You dare ask me where he is? After what you’ve leaked to your good-for-nothing father? Where do you _think_?”

Horror drained what little color still remaining on Azelma’s face. “Oh God, you don’t mean… I didn’t know! I thought you would be able to –”

“Spare your excuses. And your game is over. Bring me to Cosette or I will arrest you for kidnapping.”

For several long seconds, trepidation came over Azelma and she looked as if she was seriously weighing the prospect of being arrested against the possibility of escaping. But each passing moment seemed to further awaken something fierce inside her, and Javert realized he would not get anything out of Azelma by using force or intimidation: this was the girl who did not back down from a loaded pistol.

He must employ a different tactic or risk losing all trials leading to Cosette forever. At the thought, he tasted something sour in his mouth. He was doing this for Valjean, he reminded himself.

“That is… forgive me, I have misspoken.” He forced humility into his voice, ignoring the pain gnawing his insides for lowering himself to the level of a street rat, the whelp of a criminal. But his tactic achieved the desired result. Azelma looked up at him in shock. “No, I will not arrest you. In fact, I must…” He breathed in deeply. _This is for Valjean._ “…ah, apologize, for failing to heed your warning.”

The girl was now gaping at him with equal parts of incredulity and suspicion written across her face. He must not let the moment pass. He pressed on.

“When we were here last time, you offered to take me to Montparnasse and Gueulemer and have them arrested prior to the _rendez-vous_ at the warehouse at Rue des Saints-Pères. I had mistakenly believed you were trying to bribe the police then, but I see it now, you were trying to protect them.

“Cosette had already escaped—they lost her, as you had said. And you knew that this could only mean their deaths under your father’s orders. And so you offered them to the police, if only to grant them the possibility of life instead of certain death. Of course, I failed to see this, and by the time I connected your action with your true motive, your father already had those two men killed.

“I do not care for their deaths. But what transpired has shown me that you are not like your father. You risked your own safety to try to save Montparnasse and Gueulemer. I have no reason not to believe that you did the same for Cosette. You’ve aided her escape by interfering—or not interfering, I do not need the details. I only know that you chose to protect her when you realized your father intended to dispose of her.

“Please.” Javert pleaded. “Bring me to the person who has Cosette. Let me take her home. It will all be for Valjean.”

For a long moment, Azelma neither responded nor looked at Javert. She wrapped her arms around herself as if this fading summer day was colder than a dark night raging with ice and snow. Javert noticed the irregular rising and falling motions from the curve of her back. She was trying to will her inner turmoil away, to free herself from reliving those fateful days when she lost everyone she knew to death or the police. And Javert the culprit could only wait impassively, forcing the inspector in him to remain still and thinking about what Valjean would do in a situation like this. Valjean always seemed to know the right words to say, the right comforting gesture to extend. He, on the other hand, was stiff even in his desire to be non-aggressive. He wondered if Azelma would risk lunging for the door. If she did, should he seize her by force to prevent her from disappearing forever? Or would there be words that could persuade her to turn back, to help? The uncomfortable truth flashed clearly across his mind: Azelma was right, he had no bargaining power. To criminals and those associated with them, the police’s only role was to take, to confiscate, to strip away dignity and humanity. He had nothing to offer her.

“I promised Valjean I would do everything in my power to return Cosette home,” he said quietly. Azelma did not look at him; he wasn’t certain if she had heard. “Please. Surely you must see that she is better off freed than to remain in captivity.”

“She isn’t in captivity,” Azelma said, staring into space.

“Then where –”

“It doesn’t matter. She’s safe. She’s as content as she can be under the circumstances. If Fauchelevent is taken by the police, then stop meddling and let her start a new life.”

“She will start a new life,” Javert countered. “I will take her to Marius Pontmercy. Valjean has agreed to give her to the boy in betrothel –”

Head and hair whipping around, eyes flashing with anger, boring coal-like holes into and through him. “Will you never stop presuming, you inspectors and fathers and people who think you know better? Cosette loves Marius. Yes, I know this. Fauchelevent made it clear that day when _you_ held me captive in his home. But Marius isn’t a solution. He isn’t some sort of key to her future. Cosette will find him, I will see to it. I have eyes and ears throughout Paris. But do not choose for her.”

“Oh? And how will she choose when she doesn’t know the full circumstances surrounding her life?” Javert pressed. “She knows nothing of her past. She knows nothing of Paris and its dangers. Return her to me, and I will see to it that Valjean’s wishes for her are fulfilled.”

Azelma smiled. It conveyed everything opposite of what a smile should hold, and not for the first time Javert wondered if he were staring at a female counterpart of himself, a life so deprived of anything good that there was nothing to lose and thus everything to gain in a tit-for-tat negotiation over the fate of a young girl.

She had grown calm. Too calm, Javert realized, and found himself holding his breath in wait of what Azelma was going to say. The smile grew into a feral grin that did not reach her eyes.

“Ah, but you are mistaken, Inspector,” she said, her voice mocking, piercing through the thunder-like clapping of his heart in his ears. “Cosette does know.”

He froze, feeling as if his very heart had stopped.

Azelma’s gaze was level and unflinching. It was not hostile, but Javert felt accusatory fingers pointed at him, pointed by this unwavering young girl at the whole world.

“She knows,” he stated, confirmed. There was no need to ask what.

Azelma nodded. “I told Cosette the truth.”

The one truth that Valjean had hidden from his daughter –

“How else was I supposed to let her decide whether she wants to stay where she is or to return to an empty house? Someone has to explain to her why my father’s idiotic extortion scheme didn’t work and yet her father is still lost. I didn’t know for sure if he was arrested until now, but it was pretty obvious that Fauchelevent never returned home.” Azelma paused as if assessing whether the inspector was worthy of hearing her next words. Inexplicably, she seemed satisfied with a Javert struck wordless. “And as nice as he is, Fauchelevent doesn’t rule her life. Even if you coppers didn’t arrest him, Cosette still deserves to know the truth.”

He couldn’t disagree with her. He had long believed that Valjean should have disclosed his past to his daughter. But that was Valjean’s prerogative.

He protested, “You don’t understand. Valjean –”

“Is a wonderful and devoted father. Knowing that her father is a wanted criminal doesn’t change any of that.”

“But this is his secret, Valjean should be the one –”

“What? To keep Cosette in ignorance forever?” Azelma was looking at him with her chin tilted out, a challenge in her very posture, daring Javert to disagree—which he did. For all that he thought Cosette should know the truth, he did not believe it was proper for another person to disclose Valjean’s secret.

He imagined Valjean’s reaction if he discovered that his precious Cosette now saw him as a criminal. Would he believe her even if she persisted in declaring her love for him? Javert thought back to their disagreement over Valjean’s denial of being a good man. He thought further back, to his days as Madeleine, when the beloved mayor was known to maintain few friendships aside from his rapport with the sisters and the parish priest. Realization invaded him like a bright light stabbing into a blind man freshly healed from his infirmity: Jean Valjean had never considered himself worthy of love. The man could accept Cosette loving him as Ultime Fauchelevent, her presumed father, but beneath the mask, Valjean was terrified of being exposed not to be returned to the bagne, but to think that he would lose the favor of the angel of his life.

Azelma’s voice drew him out of his reverie. “I love my father, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow, questioning.

Azelma shrugged. “I know, as far as criminals go, he’s one of the worst. But he’s still my father and I will never stop loving him. You look at him and only see M. Thénardier the criminal. But there are things you don’t know about him. He’s not always bad. I’ve seen him laugh. He held me when I was little. He was the one to come to my bedside whenever I woke up from a nightmare and my mother was too fed up to care. I will always love him for that.

“So what makes you think that Cosette won’t love her father just because he’s also some petty criminal? In fact –” She gestured vaguely around her, as if trying to address an invisible Valjean in their midst. “– what right does Fauchelevent think he has to deny Cosette _her_ right to properly love him, all of him?”

Javert had nothing to say to that. He knew nothing of love between fathers and their daughters. Being neither a daughter nor someone who knew his father, it was something he would never understand.

What he did understand, however, was that Cosette had been told the truth of both Valjean’s past and his disappearance since the ransom meeting. And instead of returning home to no father, she had chosen to remain where she was.

“Cosette, she is safe?” he asked.

“As safe as she can be.”

“And you will not take me to her or to the person she is boarding with.”

“I see no benefit in further disrupting her life. She’s adjusting. Look,” she snapped when Javert made to object, “if her father ever reappears, I’ll let her know. I’ve been checking for signs of Fauchelevent at both his homes.”

Ah. So the strange sensation of being watched at Rue de l’Homme Armé was Azelma and not the porter, Javert realized. She had been diligent in checking both of Valjean’s residences for his return each day.

“Cosette will return home when he does,” Azelma added.

“And if he doesn’t return?”

“Like I said, maybe she’ll find Marius again. When she’s ready.”

The girl’s life would go on—heartbroken and grieving, but Cosette would survive just as Fantine had held onto life until sickness overtook her. Javert reached into his pocket and took out the two items that he had taken with him. They were intended for Cosette: the thirty thousand francs that the police had recovered from Thénardier, and a slip of paper with _Marius Pontmercy, No. 6, Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire_ written on it. Azelma could not read, so the paper would reach Cosette through her current keeper. But something in him believed that all or part of the money would also reach Cosette despite the astronomical sum passing through the hands of a former criminal.

“For Cosette,” he said simply, watching as Azelma first took the items without comprehension and then widening her eyes at the realization of what had been entrusted to her for delivery.

Javert turned toward the door, looking out at a rapidly darkening sky. The air was damp in the summer heat, but there remained a heaviness in the air that was not caused by the fading sun. Love could not conquer all, he thought bitterly. It did not prevent Valjean’s arrest, nor could it ever give Azelma what she wanted, to have her family back.

Javert spoke into the night: “Your father and his gang are held temporarily at La Force until they stand trial. If you go the Rue du Roi de Sicile and walk to the north side of the building, you may be able to catch a conversation with him. You will not be able to see him, for he is kept at the ward for repeat offenders awaiting trial and the windows there are blocked. But I was told by the guards who work there that the structure attracts sound from the outside due to the peculiar way the courtyard is designed. The changing of the guards occurs ten minutes before midnight. You may be able to converse with him for several minutes before the new guards reach their station and shoo you away.”

He glanced behind him. Azelma stood motionless, no longer looking at the objects clutched in her right hand. Then her shoulders started to shake, and Javert saw her free hand, which had fallen to her side, balled into a fist. Her eyes closed as she dipped her head away from him.

“Thank you.”

He said nothing more as he walked away from the Patron-Minette house, disappearing into the night.

-

Javert returned to work with a vengeance. He completed all the paperwork for Cosette’s missing person case in a single afternoon, producing a detailed report that was so thick that no one glancing at the file in passing would believe that the case was compiled in mere hours. Chabouillet gave him a curious look when Javert submitted the file. “I am finished with pursuing the girl,” he mumbled, and was grateful that the Secrétaire did not press the matter or ply him with further questions. Cosette was safe and well provided for. Perhaps in time he would pay the Gillenormands a visit to learn whether she had sought out Pontmercy—he had two pistols to demand back from that idiot boy, after all. But aside from this outstanding visit, he had no reason to interfere in Cosette’s life anymore.

He penned a note and asked Marcel to take it to Valjean. _I regret that I am unable to locate Cosette. But I was assured by a source that she is safe and has settled into a new life. She will be well provided for with your money. In time, she will seek out Pontmercy._ Marcel looked uneasy when he returned, and Javert knew that Valjean had wept.

He almost gave into the foolish impulse to descend into the cellars again, but stopped just in time when he remembered that he had no reason to further torment Valjean with his unwelcome presence.

 

Since his return to duty, Chabouillet had ordered—demanded—his presence at the Prefecture everyday. Each morning, Javert would report to Monsieur le Secrétaire’s office to show his face, to let his superior know that he was still fit to perform police work. He no longer took orders from the Commissaire. He wondered if the entire Prefecture had noticed the peculiar change. Chabouillet assigned him basic tasks, paperwork or simple patrol duties that even a first-year gendarme would not be able to fail. Javert understood this as his punishment, to be demoted not in title but in work, to have his infidelity to the law pointed out daily to him not with an angry finger, but with the unfathomable self-restraint of his patron who still tolerated his service and still spoke fairly to him the same way he gave orders to all others.

They did not speak about Valjean.

One week after his return, Javert almost asked Chabouillet if Valjean had been transferred out of the Prefecture’s holding cell and into the Châtlet de Paris, the dungeon-like cellar where convicts were deposited until there were enough condemned souls to warrant transporting them like cattle to Toulon or Nîmes or to some other bagne. He dismissed the urge before he was foolish enough to blurt out the question. He was still an inspector. He could enter the holding cells at any time. That he couldn’t face Valjean again was of no concern to Chabouillet.

It was another week before Javert convinced himself that Valjean must have been transferred, that he didn’t need to witness the man’s final journey into condemnation anyway. Not when he was already seeing it every night in his dreams.

Each morning, he would pore through _Le Moniteur_ to search for news of Jean Valjean’s condemnation or—God forbid—his execution. But there was not a single mention of the convict. On the third week, a short article pronounced the final demise of the Patron-Minette as Thénardier and his gang were sent to the gallows. His stomach twisted at reading the news, his mind couldn’t be cleared of Azelma grieving beyond consolation. He asked Georges to return to the decrepit house under the guise of following up with taking inventory of the items left in there. He was on edge the entire day until the gendarme returned and reported the full inventory, noting that there was nothing unusual beyond what they had seen during their first visit. It was only then did Javert realize that he had been secretly afraid of the lad discovering the body of a young girl there.

A full month passed before Chabouillet allowed Javert to work again on highly sensitive files. He spent the first day recording the information relayed by the Prefecture’s police spies. Tried as he may, he couldn’t push away the growing sense of resentment. He used to be the one to gather intelligence from informants and assign the recording to clerks or a gendarme. As he sat in his desk, his head bent low from the task of writing, he tried not to imagine all eyes on him and the hushed chatterings that would follow, whispered gossips of Inspector Javert’s fall from his patron’s favor. It was only proper, he reminded himself. Traitors should be punished. At this thought, he chastised himself for his bitterness. He ought to be thankful for the humiliation. It was just. It was also not nearly enough to atone for his offenses against Chabouillet, let alone his sins against Valjean.

He finished his tasks two hours before he was scheduled to leave duty. As he waited while Chabouillet examined his work, Javert felt once again the sensation of being tried and judged like a criminal. He stood still, head low and hands at his sides. _Javert’s been tamed_ , words that weren’t meant for his ears assaulted the silence, his colleagues’ pronouncement of him that he had overheard. He had recognized the truth in those words and couldn’t bring himself to feel indignant.

“Thank you, Inspector. You are relieved for the rest of the day.” Chabouillet’s tone was mild. This was what Javert most despised, the kindness. Several times, the Secrétaire sounded almost apologetic, as if he were the one in the wrong. Javert wished he would be yelled at and promptly dismissed. But his patron had learned how best to torture him. He could never take well to kindness, just like –

He forced away the inevitable comparison. It was always back to Jean Valjean, haunter of his dreams and his every waking thought.

His face turned red when he realized he had stopped paying attention to what the Secrétaire was saying and that his superior was waiting for him to focus his mind again. “Pardon me, Monsieur,” he mumbled, averting his gaze. He could make out from the corners of his eyes that Chabouillet nodded. A gesture of understanding. Yet more undeserved kindness.

“As I was saying, you will report to the Prefecture promptly at eight tomorrow morning,” Chabouillet resumed. “I need your assistance with something that is of utmost importance. It concerns a matter that I can only entrust to you to perform.”

Had he regained his patron’s good graces at last? Hope flared in him. If he performed his duty well tomorrow, he may finally be permitted to resign.

“I’m sorry, but I cannot tell you more.” Chabouillet roamed his eyes up and down his body and was obviously displeased with what he saw. “Get some rest tonight, Javert. You look as if you haven’t slept in a month.”—he hadn’t—“I will see you at eight tomorrow.”

“Yes, Monsieur.”

That night, he dreamed of Valjean’s face twisting into that of Jean-le-Cric’s, eyes burning with hatred reserved only for him. When he screamed himself awake, it was two in the morning.

It was a long six hours of sleeplessness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added "Javert & Azelma Thénardier" as a tag, since all their interactions warrant a separate label. Azelma totally grew on me. I never expected I would enjoy writing them so much.


	18. In Which All Orders Are Restored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the month that has since past, mysteries are revealed and debts are resolved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the final "real" chapter in which the plot gets resolved. I was overly optimistic about Valjean and Javert's ability to resolve outstanding issues between themselves, however. So there will now be an epilogue to let them say what they need to say to each other :-)

The place was busy tonight, like any other night. The dip in customers the few days following the uprising was an anomaly, and in the weeks that had since past, the main dining area of the Café Musain was once again filled with energetic students (different ones this time, those boys who spoke of the revolution of the masses were gone), worldly businessmen, and idle socialites who needed to escape from high-brow home parties and _salon_ gatherings but would not stoop so low as to set foot inside a tavern contaminated by the sweat and smell of the working class. Though its clientele was mixed, Café Musain offered a veneer of respectability. This respectability was boosted in recent days by frequent gatherings filled with discourses about raising up the oppressed and the poor. During those days, no one batted an eyelash at the incongruity that the advocates for the poor were were mostly sons born to families with means and privileged university students. The truly poor, after all, were too busy begging on the streets or digging in the gutters to scrape together their next meal. Those who belonged to the bottom rung of society may have died alongside the sons of privilege, but they were never meant to be the beneficiaries of the revolutionary leaders’ talks of _égalité_.

To the casual observer, Café Musain appeared to have suffered no more than a few lines of mere surface wounds scratched red by the revolution in a ledger book that was now filled with rows upon rows of profits inked in black. And indeed, the owner of the establishment, the matronly (or not so matronly, depending on the patron from which one might solicit an opinion) Madame Houcheloup, would readily confess (or boast, depending once again on the patron approached for inquiry) that all was well again, that if anyone were to ask her for her thoughts on current politics (none did), she was convinced that Paris’s woes had been exaggerated and that there was never truly a need for a revolution. Oh, those students? Ah, the idealistic young and their foibles. What a pity. Some of them might have excelled under the service to the Republic (or the King, for Madame Houcheloup cared little for who was in power as long as her suppliers were available to sell her wines and spirits). Alas, they were too young to have remembered _the_ revolution, all of them having been younger than forty. The present Paris was built upon rivers of blood. And these boys… well, blood for a better tomorrow indeed, though Madame Houcheloup would remind everyone that she much more preferred wine, thank you very much.

But underneath the presumed return to normalcy, two people knew better: Matelote and Gibelote, Café Musain’s ever-present waitresses, beloved by all for their ability to satisfy hunger and to serve up drunkenness. The café was bustling and not a day passed by without both of them wishing at one point (sometimes many) to have been born with four arms and to have wheels as their feet instead. But neither dared complain to Madame Houcheloup to ask for increased wages or to hire another server, for both knew that there was one area of the establishment that had yet to become open again to seat customers since the uprising—the back room of the Café Musain, where those revolutionary school boys used to hold regular meetings.

It was in this very back room, formally off-limits to female patrons, that Matelote and Gibelote now ushered the café’s most unwanted patron—a gangly girl who seemed to have emerged from the gutters only to come to inhale enough food to sustain her until her next visit—so that the rest of the merrymakers would not see her. This girl always came by way of the back entrance where a side door opened to the Rue des Grés. Matelote thought she knew this girl; she bore some resemblance to that little boy who used to hang about the students and to another raggedly dressed girl whom Matelote had caught on several occasions trying to infiltrate the back room by disguising as a boy.

It was Gibelote who recognized this girl’s benefactor, the one who would meet her in the back room and pay for all their food and drinks as they conducted what business they had on hand that must be discussed in secret. Gibelote associated this benefactor’s face with two of the school boys whom she presumed to have died in the uprising. She never asked. For one, it would be improper. But in truth, there was no need to ask what was obvious before her eyes.

Sometimes, a third person would join these peculiar gatherings, a beautiful girl with brown hair and a slender figure who looked distinctly out of place not only from her raggedly dressed associate, but also from many of the common folks gathered in the main area of the café. Both Matelote and Gibelote thought hard to place this girl’s relation with the other two, sifting through their memories for this face. No, they both concluded. Prior to the revolution, she had never been inside the Café Musain.

Perhaps it was knowing that their unexpected visitors were grieving for lost friends. Perhaps it was the waitresses’ envy of these people’s independence. Or perhaps it was nothing so charitable and it was only because the rich one was always willing to part with large sums of money. Whatever the reason, until the unfortunate day came when Madame Houcheloup would discover that the back room had been in use and just what sort of patrons was being served in there, neither Matelote and Gibelote was inclined to cease their small gesture of solidarity and turn their unlikely guests away.

-

Javert arrived the Prefecture the next morning promptly at eight.

“You didn’t heed my advice,” Chabouillet said, sparing a look at the inspector before returning to a document that he proceeded to finish reading and sign. No long observation was needed; Javert knew he looked like shit. Today, there was an undertone of amusement to the Secrétaire’s words. “No matter. Here, take this missive. You are to record its content and close out an old file. You will know what to do. The sooner you complete this task, the more quickly we can get out of here.”

Get out of here? He hadn’t been allowed to work on anything that required walking further than the thirty or so feet that it took to enter the Secrétaire’s office for over a month. And Chabouillet rarely had time aside from his administrative duties to venture outside of the Prefecture. He took the letter from Chabouillet, careful not to let his dubious curiosity show.

“Well?” Javert raised his eyes to meet his superior’s. Chabouillet was in a pleasant mood today—that was most certainly a smile tugging at his lips. “Get to work, Inspector. And I mean it. Do not report back to me until you have thoroughly resolved all the past records for this file.”

“Understood, Monsieur.”

Ignoring the curious glances of his colleagues not used to seeing him at work so early, Javert settled into his desk and unfolded the letter—the seal had already been broken. It was issued jointly from several royal ministers, plus the signature of the Prefect himself.

Before Javert could finish reading the first sentence, he felt as if his very heart had stopped.

-

Azelma felt herself thrumming with nervous energy as she waited for the others inside the back room of the Café Musain. They were meeting earlier than usual today, in the morning, when the café had barely opened its doors to its first wave of customers. And if the _gamin_ she asked to go get the others for the meeting decided to shirk off the task, then she would be waiting for a long time. But there was no other way to reach them; she had made sure not to know their whereabouts. It was much safer for all of them this way.

Azelma tore off a large piece of bread, lathered it with a lavish amount of cheese, and stuffed it into her mouth. Whenever she was the first to arrive, she would order food and drinks right away. They never talked until all the food was consumed anyway, for it was clear that part of the bargain included feeding her. And why not? They both knew she could have easily kept Fauchelevent’s money. That she didn’t… Azelma honestly didn’t know why she chose not to keep a single bank note. She didn’t lack money, she told herself. Cleaning houses brought in enough income to sustain her. But she knew deep inside that that wasn’t the real reason. But she would never allow herself to admit to anything so sentimental as sympathy. Or was it empathy? She couldn’t push the thought away that she wasn’t the only one who had recently lost a father.

In any case, the money bought her an unlimited supply of food during these meetings. The food at Café Musain was much better than buying scraps from bakers or butchers—scraps that would have been discarded at the end of the day—and so Azelma never felt shame in ordering a lot of food, especially since there would be three of them today, never mind that Cosette always only pecked at her plate like a bird.

Cosette. Even in her wildest dreams, she never imagined they would cross paths again like this. Of course she knew about her supposed adopted sister. But her parents were habitual liars. And she was very young then, five, maybe six? She could hardly remember her childhood home at Montfermeil, let alone how and with whom she had lived. All she remembered was coming across a girl in one of her father’s hideout places, weeping for hours on end, hiccuping and choking out “I’m so sorry, Papa!” over and over again. _So this is the one that Marius loves_ , she remembered thinking. “Shut up,” she had jeered, “Crying won’t get you out of here.” And then their eyes met, and Azelma had to get away before she could do anything foolish. Cosette was so innocent, she could see it in her eyes. _She shouldn’t be here_ was all she could think about for the rest of that afternoon.

And then it was her and Cosette in the courtyard, she about to alert the gang and Cosette stopping in her tracks from fear like a deer struck immobile by a bright light. But instead of crying or begging, Cosette managed to flash such a defiant look that all Azelma could think of was _Éponine_. “I’m getting out of here.” Cosette’s face was set in resolve and her eyes dry. “You do that,” she had mocked—but it was also a challenge, almost an encouragement—before she screamed for Montparnasse and Gueulemer even as she did nothing to stop Cosette from slipping through the courtyard gate and disappearing into the twilight. Those two deserved to exert their energy in a chase for falling asleep. But they didn’t deserve to die. How was she supposed to know that Cosette didn’t know her way home and so had unintentionally avoided all the eyes and ears that her father had planted along the way?

And then it was Cosette wandering the streets of Paris at night, after the fire at the warehouse and after both of their fathers were lost. How was it that the girl had no knowledge of the city, she couldn’t conceive. “Do you even know anyone?” One person. Azelma vaguely knew of this name, one of the faces among Marius’s group. “You’ll want to go to the Café Musain.” “Where is that?” Oh dear God, the girl knew nothing…

And that was the beginning of a strange friendship, three unlikely people coming together in the wake of grief.

The door connecting the back room to the rest of the café opened. Matelote stepped in, leading her two guests behind her.

“ _Salut_ , Azelma,” they both greeted.

Good. They were both here. Without waiting for either of them to sit, Azelma pushed herself up from her seat. “Cosette. Musichetta. I saw him, the old man!”

She ignored the twin gasps. Looking across the table at her friends and holding each of their gazes, Azelma repeated: “Fauchelevent, Jean Valjean, whatever he now goes by. Your father, Cosette. The coppers released him. I saw him with my own eyes. He’s back.”

-

Chabouillet placed a signed document onto a pile of other signed documents. He did not pick up another one. Anytime now, he thought, unable to banish the smile on his face. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck from side to side, satisfied at the cracking sounds that the movements made. He looked out of his office door, which he’d left open. Javert was writing furiously at his desk, doubtless copying the entire content of the letter to ensure nothing was omitted to close out Jean Valjean’s file. It was always duty before personal matters when it came to the irreproachable inspector, even if it was as clear as day that he cared deeply for M. Valjean. Chabouillet sent a silent prayer of thanks heavenward. If the pardon had been denied, he truly wouldn’t have known what to do.

He was indebted to Henri for agreeing to request a pardon from the King as the primary petitioner. A request from the Prefect himself! He knew it wasn’t because Jean Valjean was the infamous convict mayor or that Henri was particularly inclined to advocate for mercy. “If this man saved one of our inspectors twice and brought down the Patron-Minette, then there is only one course of action for us,” Henri had said. Chabouillet agreed: it was just to seek Valjean’s pardon.

Brisk footfalls were coming his way. Chabouillet lifted his eyes in time to see Javert enter, his nostrils flaring and his eyes bloodshot, the pardon clutched in his hand.

“Why did you not inform me?” he shouted.

“Close the door, Javert.”

Javert did not break his gaze as he reached a hand behind him and slammed the door forcefully, blocking them from the growing number of curious glances cast their way. He closed the gap between them in three quick strides. “Why, Chabouillet, when I have been convinced that Valjean would be shipped to Toulon!”

Javert only addressed him by name when the matter at hand was deemed more important than respect for the police, which was not often at all. The last time he was so impassioned, he was a newly arrived inspector at the Paris Prefecture, insisting that the convict Jean Valjean was alive and still at large and that the police should direct all its resources to recapture him. Chabouillet schooled his face into a neutral expression. It would be imprudent to smile at Javert’s singular devotion to this one man and have his amusement misunderstood as mockery. In truth, he was awestruck that Valjean had been holding such influence over Javert for so long, and that the inspector was entirely unaware of it.

“I was not in the position to tell. The Prefect has his reasons for not informing you.”

“But you knew!”

Chabouillet fixed Javert a level gaze. “And so did M. Valjean. He was free to relay all updates of his case to you. In fact, I thought that he would have.”

The draining of all color from Javert’s face was answer enough.

“You have not been visiting M. Valjean.”

“I…” Javert shook his head. “I thought… it has been so long…”

 _I couldn’t_ , Chabouillet heard, and saw once again Javert crumbled before Valjean that first day when he returned to the Prefecture, broken and inconsolable. The inspector must have believed that Valjean now despised him. And if anyone could claim to know his protégé, it would be he, who knew the man’s inhuman ability to exert control over himself was both a strength and a flaw. Javert was blind to the most obvious option within his reach: to seek reconciliation, whether to make amend for real or imaginary offenses. Instead, he had lived in self-inflicted agony for the past month.

Chabouillet sighed. “It doesn’t matter. Come, let us go to M. Valjean. I had planned to accompany you to take him home, but now I see that there is much between you to talk about. You are relieved for the day after this.”

Javert nodded mutely but made no attempt to move, and the answer to his earlier question crashed into Chabouillet like a jolt of lightning. He suddenly _knew_ : if the pardon had been denied and Valjean was condemned, he would never see Javert again.

“Come, Javert,” he said, gentler this time, rounding his desk as he stood and placed a hand on Javert’s shoulder in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture. “I believe he would want to hear the news from you.”

Though Javert looked very much as if he would disagree, he nodded again, and, squaring his shoulders, the inspector set his face toward the door and began to walk.

-

Jean Valjean heard the clicking of booted heels walking down the stairs that led to the cellar, and he knew today was the day: in the next hour, he would either walk out of the Prefecture a free man or be led by the chains to the Châtlet de Paris. It was frighteningly simple, when he considered it: his fate was entirely dependent on the decision of one man. This king, a new one, did not know him like a different king once knew Mayor Madeleine. This king did not hold him in high regard. Would he be merciful when he had no cause to incline favor to a criminal, when Valjean’s was probably one among hundreds of petitions begging for clemency, all of them undeserving?

Over the past weeks, Valjean had often thought about how someone who knew him might decide his fate—someone who knew all of him, unlike Cosette. Each time, he would come to the uneasy realization that none other than Javert could play this judge, and… well, he already knew the inspector’s decision, did he not? For all that Javert had insisted he would not arrest him, he was here. And now that the inspector’s conscience was assuaged, with the criminal back in prison and the right order of things restored, there was no longer any need for mercy and tolerating the presence of a thief, nor—he was glad of this—any need for the conflicted man to succumb to the river’s call. Javert was free to move forward with his life, and having caught not a glimpse of him since that incomprehensible day when Javert had wept and collapsed before him (a clear sign of his injury not yet recovered at the time), Valjean knew that just as Javert had decided criminals ultimately belonged back in prison, no king would pay his petition any mind.

He glanced down at the note that Javert had sent him via Marcel. Cosette was lost but was faring well. He considered this God’s mercy. She was free of him at last and would one day reunite with her Marius. Life would go on as it should, and he… the footsteps grew louder. Valjean gulped. He did not feel ready, but he would have to be.

His heart burned, that damnable betrayer of his emotions, and Valjean realized that despite preparing himself to accept the likely outcome, he still hoped for absolution.

Javert was walking ahead of Monsieur le Secrétaire. Doubtless he was tasked to deliver the news. Valjean noted his pale countenance, as if the inspector was in great shock. Could it be that there was a trace of mercy in the man, after all, to feel horrified on his behalf? He stayed his eyes on Javert. The man was… gaunt. He looked more shaken than the night after the barricades fell and more sickly than when he was in the hospital. Dark circles smeared his eyes. And though he was dressed as impeccably as ever, Valjean believed he would succeed if he were to try to fit two Javerts into the loose clothing that he was wearing, so ill-fitting they were that the now too-large summer coat could not conceal.

He waited to be addressed, but when no word came from either Javert or the Secrétaire, Valjean dipped his head in a polite bow. “Monsieur le Secrétaire, Monsieur l’Inspecteur.”

Javert stepped forward and did not stop until he was mere inches away from the barrier that separated them. In the nearness, Valjean noticed Javert’s eyes were bloodshot. Dear God in heaven, how many days had he gone without sleeping? He kept his gaze steady, allowing Javert to look into his soul. He wondered if Javert could see anything. He wasn’t so successful at reading the inspector himself. The man was agitated, this much he could tell. But the lack of other emotions—there was no triumph or a victor’s glee—alarmed him. The Javert before him was more like the distraught man unraveling in his house than the stern officer of the law. Before him was once again the man who could not walk out of the cellar without the Secrétaire’s aide when they’d last encountered each other here.

The silence was becoming unbearable.

“Monsieur l’Inspecteur?”

Javert’s glance faltered, and he looked away; he was gazing at something next to him, down and to his side.

His note about Cosette.

Javert seemed surprised that he had retained the note. He supposed the inspector was right to feel taken aback, for there was no reason for him to keep a message that he could now recite by heart. But he would never cast away anything that bore Cosette’s name. And over the weeks when he had often gazed at the note for hours at a time, his thought had wandered toward Javert too. In those moments, he would thank God for the inspector’s sense of honor to search for Cosette beyond what his duty had required. He would also wish Javert well, praying to God to keep him safe, healthy, and alive.

He looked away from the note. What was Javert waiting for? He was ready. Javert’s eyes were on him again. He looked up, meeting the gaze. He was ready.

“Convict.”

He fought back the urge to flinch. He felt all the air stolen from his lungs. So this was his final condemnation. He inhaled deeply.

“I –”

“Stop it!” Javert shouted, his features twisted together in a very unpleasant way. “Don’t. You will never—do you hear me, Jean Valjean? Never, never answer to that again. From now on, Val – _Monsieur_ , from now on, you must know that no iron will ever bow you down, and no one must treat you as anything but the saint that you are.”

Javert was breathing heavily, his words hurried. Just like Valjean’s own heartbeats. They thundered in his ears, beating so loudly that he could not be certain that he had understood Javert’s words correctly. If he must never answer to _convict_ again… did this mean he was free?

“But…”

“Fool,” Javert whispered. His eyes reminded Valjean of a mangy dog that stepped into his and Cosette’s path once, helpless but aggressive. Lost. “Fool. Valjean, you are a fool. You think so lowly of yourself. Why? No, you are not a fool. I am. I am the fool –”

A shadow fell onto Javert, and Valjean looked up. Monsieur le Secrétaire had approached, his face like stone. He did not encroach on Javert’s space but stood close enough to catch the inspector should his body decide to give out. They were in agreement then; Javert was working himself into a state of turmoil.

He turned away from Javert’s mutterings. He had to ask. He needed to know. “Monsieur le Secrétaire, am I –”

The word caught in his throat. He could not give voice to his deepest hope. He must not give name to something that may still only be an illusion.

But Chabouillet nodded, and for several heartbeats, he saw the hint of a smile.

“Yes, Monsieur Valjean. You have been pardoned. You are free.”

-

Inside the apartment that she now claimed as her own, Musichetta sat on the couch in the sitting room, waiting and dreading. Her mind had half-blocked out the sounds from a wall away. Clanging, objects dropping, and the general noises of someone packing her belongings could be heard from what she had come to think of as Cosette’s room, along with the occasional humming of melodious tunes. She should be happy for Cosette, and she was. But Cosette was leaving _her_. This one constant in her life that had kept her fragile sanity from bursting into a thousand pieces was now going back to her father. And for her… well, Musichetta only knew of one way that would take her to Laigle and Joly, and even that way was blocked to her, for she was hale and young and death would not beckon her for many years to come. She refused to consider the other option. Joly and Laigle were pure souls and must be in paradise now, so she must not condemn herself to hell. But hell in the realm of the living was equally undesirable. She had managed to get by with the presence of a new friend. But now that Cosette was leaving, Musichetta suddenly felt like a marionette whose strings had been severed, limp and no longer capable to fulfill her function in life.

It wasn’t as if she had done much during these past weeks. She’d like to think that she had shown the ways of the world to Cosette, but in truth, it was Cosette who had brought light into her life. Here they were, two hurting souls struggling to understand their recent losses, and Musichetta was certain that Cosette wasn’t any less confused about why everything happened the way they did, about the point of it all. But she had never once seen Cosette angry. Musichetta wondered if she inherited this sentiment from her father or learned it from him. For she was utterly selfless, just like M. Fauchelevent. Cosette’s large brown eyes, dimmed by sadness but never devoid of a childlike faith, would look kindly at her day after day in silent inquiry. _How are you?_ She could read her sincere concern even as it was obvious that Cosette herself was not faring well. And Musichetta could do nothing but smile in return, taking her hand as Cosette led them in evening prayer, asking for daily bread that Musichetta knew was possible only by her association with Cosette and the large sum of money that had found its way to her.

She felt tainted next to such a beautiful being, but not judged—never judged. Her living arrangement with Laigle and Joly was accepted as readily as if she had told Cosette that the two previous occupants of this place were pups that she’d kept as pets. “When my papa returns, you can start a new life with us,” Cosette had said, so certain of Monsieur Fauchelevent’s eventual release. _How can you know that?_ she had asked, when what she really wanted to tell her was the uneasy feeling she’d felt when she was interrogated by Inspector Javert that day at the hospital. But she held her tongue. Cosette remembered Inspector Javert and was terrified of him. “He was the one who chased my father and me when we first arrived Paris,” Cosette had said when she finally pieced Javert’s name to his appearance that still haunted her in her nightmares. “I was only eight then, but I will never forget. That chase was how we got to the convent and how papa reunited with Uncle Fauchelevent.” Even Azelma had regretted mentioning that fear-inducing name when she told them about M. Fauchelevent’s arrest. If Inspector Javert was involved, then Musichetta didn’t know how Cosette would ever see her father again.

So she would change the subject. “Do you want to go see Marius?” Some days, Cosette woud say yes. Most days, she’d say no, let him rest. On the yes days, they would meet Azelma at the Place Saint-Michel outside of Café Musain and she would guide them to Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire, No. 6. Sometimes they would take a fiacre. Marius must have cried out Cosette’s name when he was still delirious, for as soon as Cosette had introduced herself for the first time, the servant clutched her hand as if she were the medicine that Marius needed and had all but dragged her to his bedside. Perhaps she was indeed the medicine he needed, for by the third week, Marius could sit up in his bed again. The old gentleman, the kindly Monsieur Gillenormand, always paid for a carriage ride home for them.

Musichetta wasn’t envious, though every once in a while, a sharp pain would stab at her heart when she caught a glimpse of Cosette’s besotted look toward Marius when he was sleeping, as if she never wanted to turn her eyes away from her love. It was terrifying, how the faces of Joly and Laigle were now less clear in her mind, as if they were fading into the past. Would she fail to remember what they looked like one of these days? She never dwelt long on this question; she was too afraid of the answer.

Some nights, she would know that they were both crying in their respective beds—she in Laigle’s and Cosette in Joly’s, though in reality Joly’s bed was always more like a spare bed that the three of them never used. Musichetta didn’t know which was worse: to grieve for the dead or for the living. Her lovers would never return to her and she knew she must move on… one day. But could Cosette, when her father was lost to the world but not in her heart? On especially bad nights, Musichetta would go into the kitchen and start a kettle. Without fail, Cosette would join her in the sitting room. It was as if she knew when they both needed comfort from each other. Sometimes, those nights would linger into dawn as two pairs of sleepless eyes stared into space. Other times, they would find sleep again on the couch, holding each other, Musichetta pretending to be in the arms of Joly or Laigle and Cosette pretending to be safe with her father again.

The days weren’t all miserable. They laughed too. Musichetta’s lips curved into a smile at the memory of the first time she showed Cosette how to put cosmetics on her face—the nuns at the convent had forbidden such vanity and M. Fauchelevent never knew to supply such necessities to his daughter. She had laughed until her lungs burned at the sight of smeared blotches of black around Cosette’s eyes and two shades of powder contrasting her forehead from her cheeks. Catching herself in a mirror, Cosette had burst out laughing as well, and when she then took some rouge in her hand and deliberately made her lips appear grotesque, Musichetta was gasping so hard that tears started to roll down her face.

Sometimes, laughing and crying were one and the same.

And so when Musichetta looked around her apartment, Cosette’s scant possessions now packed in bags, she was thankful that she was able to fill this space with new memories. She would be alone again. But this time, the lingering presence of a former occupant would not haunt her like a ghost; no, the warmth they had built in here together had dispersed the shadows. “Come back and visit,” she told Cosette as they hugged. “Not yet,” insisted Cosette as she held onto her hand, pulling her toward the door, and Musichetta suddenly found herself inside a fiacre sitting opposite of her new friend, providing the silent support that she seemed to need to prepare for her journey home.

 _Faith, hope, and love_ —Cosette had recited this during their Bible readings and prayed these words numerous times. Looking into gleaming eyes now, Musichetta no longer saw a future that was bleak and dark. She still grieved, but she was no longer bitter; her shriveled heart had begun to bloom anew. And while tears would continue to flow on the occasional night and she would still have to avoid streets that took her too close to the Corinth, she was no longer a prisoner to her losses. Faith, hope, and love. As Musichetta looked upon clear eyes and a face flushed with excitement, she realized that she had been gifted with all three—and lifted out of despair—by this precious, beautiful girl.

-

“Well,” Jean Valjean said as he stood inside his apartment at Rue de l’Homme Armé, facing an inspector who was no longer his jailer or pursuer. He was free.

He was home.

“Well,” Javert echoed, sounding very not sure of himself.

They had walked the entire way from the Prefecture in near-silence. Valjean was simply grateful to bask in the warm sunlight and breathe in the summer air as a free man. They must have walked more than half the distance before he realized he had neglected what common courtesy would demand of making conversation with one’s travel mate. But after an aborted attempt to comment on the weather had turned into a not-uncomfortable silence, Valjean simply allowed the inspector to walk in step with him without intruding into his thoughts. Several times, he distinctly felt a heavy gaze falling on his back, the invisible force prickling the hairs on his nape. He almost laughed. Whether as convict or mayor, and now as a free man, he supposed he would always be subjected to Javert’s singular attention focused only on him. He found that he did not quite mind.

“Would you like some tea?” he offered, if only as an excuse for him to busy himself with the kettle.

Javert shrugged, a strangely open gesture for the inspector. It was not accompanied by a refusal, so he chose to interpret it as a yes.

He smiled. It still felt strange how easily joy would bubble forth unbidden from deep inside him. “Very well, I will go boil the water. Please, make yourself at home. You know his place as well as I do, perhaps more.”

How strange it had been, this past month! To think that it all began with inviting the inspector here to examine his home, and now he was here with the same man, offering him tea. He placed onto his writing desk the sack that the Secrétaire had given him upon his release—containing his official papers, the salve and bandages that he still needed for his wounds on occasion, the Bible they had given him, and Javert’s note—and hurried toward the kitchen area to boil the water. He felt Javert’s eyes following his every movement.

When he returned with two steaming mugs in hand, Javert was still standing, his gaze fixed on him. “Javert?” he asked, concern rising in him. Was the inspector well? His eyes were wide and his shoulders slightly slumped—the mayor in him had sat through too many police report given by an impeccably postured inspector to not have noticed the strange vulnerability in the way Javert was now carrying himself—and Valjean noticed a tremor passing through Javert’s body, as if a chilly wind had invaded only the inspector on this hot summer day.

He set the mugs down.

“Tell me what you need,” he said. “You seem unwell.”

Javert gave a small shake to his head, and it was then that Valjean noticed how close they were standing to each other, perhaps too close. He could see individual strands of Javert’s hair pulled back and tied neatly behind him, how they tightened and then went slack at the movements of his head. He was near enough to spot the dark circles under his eyes. The features of the severe inspector had somehow transformed into a look of… uncertainty? Hesitance?

 _Shaken._ The word came to his mind. Javert the fierce inspector was shaken.

He tried to detect a trace of the confident tiger left in Javert, anything that would wipe away the odd feeling of looking into a familiar face and finding it unrecognizable. Javert stood like a new prisoner freshly arrived at the bagne, confused but too scared to show his weakness. Valjean pushed the mental image away. No, there would be no more thoughts, words, or actions tied to this particular chapter of their shared past. The days of darkness were over. And it was not yet too late for light.

“Tell me what you need,” he repeated. “If it is food, I will ask Toussaint to prepare it. If you need rest, you shall have my bed.”

“I…” Javert began, and Valjean waited, tilting his head forward to catch any sound that may escape from the inspector’s constricted throat. The muscles of Javert’s neck worked up and down; his prominent Adam’s apple dipped and rose when Javert forced himself to swallow nothing.

Valjean waited.

And then, an arm raised. The movement was slow, and Vajean noticed the hand shaking. It was a long moment before the arm closed the space between them and a tentative hand rested on Valjean’s upper arm. Javert’s touch was light, his fingertips hardly exerting any pressure through the layers of clothes. But the contact froze him in place more effectively than any irons that had attempted to force submission into him, and he could only stare at Javert’s hand on his arm. His fingers and nails were ink-stained, Valjean noted, as if not long ago Javert had been so intent on writing to have ignored the mess that the act of writing had made on his hand. Javert had strong hands. But at the moment, this shaking hand seemed to need support from the arm that it was grasping.

“You are here,” Javert whispered. He spoke like a child, wonder-filled at the sight of something at once impossible but utterly amazing.

He turned to his face. Javert’s eyes were similarly wonder-filled.

“I am here.”

He did not feel the desire to probe into what Javert was thinking. The fingers trembling against his arm already told him what he needed to know: Javert did not despise him, not anymore. These fingers would never again close around his wrist in judgment. Nor would these fingers again compose a letter to denounce him or clutch a cudgel to inflict harm.

He felt as if he were dreaming, that he would wake up at any moment to find himself still inside the cell in the cellar of the Prefecture, waiting to be informed that his request for pardon had been denied. He could see the same fear reflected in Javert’s eyes, not quite daring to believe this fragile moment as true. It was as if either of them would breathe too loudly, this un-reality would end and they would be plunged back into their respective nightmares. But Javert was touching him with a solid hand and he was standing on solid ground, and—his heart twisted in pain—this was still a reality without Cosette, so it was definitely not a dream. But for the inspector’s sake, he would not mention Cosette and would treasure what he was granted by God instead: freedom and an enemy who had become… a friend.

“The tea is getting cold,” he murmured when Javert pulled his hand away.

Neither of them moved.

He was seeing all the years between them etched into Javert’s face. What did this man look like thirty years ago, the young guard now so hazy in his memory? They had never locked gazes like this, all fear and suspicion gone and their souls laid bare one before the other. In all their shared time at Montreuil-sur-Mer, the mayor had never quite looked at the inspector and the inspector had scrutinized the mayor only from a distance. And at the barricades, when they first recognized each other, Valjean had pretended not to notice Javert. Even at their last encounter at the cellar, they were seeing past each other, locked in their own prison of the mind. But here…

They were no longer running, the hunter and the hunted.

“You are here,” Javert repeated, and there was a flicker of something passing in his eyes, something like regret and joy both at once.

“Yes.”

“I…”

“All debts are settled,” Valjean said, employing a finality in his tone that he hadn’t used in many years, not since he was Madeleine. “Tea,” he reminded with a softer voice, directing both their gazes to the mugs.

Just when he was about to reach for the tea, there was a knock at the door. “Come in! It is not locked.” Valjean called, thinking that it was the porter or Toussaint. Whoever it was must have many questions about his month-long disappearance.

The door opened with a creak.

It was just as well that he had not yet taken up a mug. For if he had, what he saw on the other side of the door—or rather, _whom_ he saw—would have jolted him so that it would have sent the mug crashing to the floor.

-

Javert did not see clearly what had happened before a rush of hair and dress flew past him, forcing him to take several steps back. And then there were arms wrapped tightly around Valjean. Cosette’s exuberance—for the girl could only be one person—lit up the entire apartment. It was as if the very air around them grew lighter, the sky outside bluer, and the birds’ chorus more pleasant to the ear. But none of it mattered to Javert. His eyes were trained on Valjean, on shaking shoulders and knees that seemed to have gone weak. And he could not turn away.

So this was Cosette. Javert conceded that she was indeed the angel of light that Valjean had spoken about. The mere sight of Cosette was transforming the man he had known for thirty years before his very eyes. Valjean, his arms wrapped like a bear around a fragile faun, seemed to have become many years younger, all sorrows having lifted from him as he, too, seemed to glow with heaven’s light.

In the presence of such light, seeing the love and joy in the embrace of two of God’s most favored creations, Javert felt black, insignificant. He was intruding, standing so close to father and daughter and yet invisible to their eyes. He shouldn’t be catching the bits of murmured words that were never intended for him to hear. Yet still he watched. Valjean was pressing a kiss on the top of Cosette’s head, then inhaled deeply as if he needed to smell her sweet perfume to confirm what he was seeing was real. Valjean pressed another kiss to her forehead. The gesture was simple but intimate, laying bare the years of deep care between them, years during which Valjean was robbed of assurance of his safety but never robbed of love.

 _Look what you did to them_ , an inner voice chided, and Javert clenched both fists and jaw, powerless to shut out the voice of accusation as he wondered what it would have been like had Valjean been free to raise a family, had Cosette grown up knowing the mayor and her mother at Montreuil-sur-Mer.

It was when tears started to flow from Valjean’s eyes that the spell was finally broken. Javert snapped his gaze to the far wall and saw two people standing near the door. Azelma and another girl whom he recognized as Musichetta. So she was Cosette’s supposed keeper, he realized, and understood at last the mystery surrounding Cosette’s whereabouts since the Patron-Minette incident. Three grieving young ladies coming together to lend support to and receive comfort from each other. Javert berated himself. He should have known. Why else would Cosette choose to stay away from home?

Catching his eyes, Azelma smirked, but there was too much joy on that face for it to have come out properly. Javert nodded his thanks. Azelma had done as she had promised. Cosette was home.

His eyes were back on Valjean again, himself the needle constantly drawn by Valjean’s perfect north. He saw tears of joy; he heard apologies spoken and accepted. He realized for the first time that Cosette would long ago be dead if Valjean hadn’t come into her life, and that if Cosette had truly been lost, her absence from Valjean’s life would equally cause him his demise as well. Javert shuddered, shaking his head to dispel the unwelcome thought. That would no longer happen. What mattered now was that Valjean and Cosette had each other back in their lives. What they needed was for him to disappear.

He glanced again at the far wall, his eyes finding emptiness. Azelma and Musichetta had both slipped out. He should do the same.

He made his escape easily; Valjean and Cosette were still too focused on each other to have noticed. Outside, the morning sky was a brilliant blue and the occasional cloud a bright white. He looked down the deserted street. His rented home was rather far away. But the day was long and he needed to be productive, even if the task at hand was to place a distance between him and Valjean from this day on.

Somewhere in the distance, birds chirped and children sang. He thought he felt eyes on him. Azelma. He turned around and raised a hand to greet the empty street, knowing that the gesture had been seen. He didn’t linger. Azelma had Musichetta to be concerned over. They would meet again soon enough.

 

He found Azelma a day later, waiting for him outside of the Prefecture at the end of his shift.

“What will you do now, Mademoiselle?”

Azelma shrugged. “Nothing. The same. Everything changed around me in the last month, but nothing has changed. I’m just going to have to struggle through life alone.”

Bitterness laced her words, palpable resentment punctuating every syllable. But Javert did not detect any self-pity. Azelma had simply stated the truth, and it did not escape him that there was more courage in her words than the hundreds of self-professed victims that he had arrested over the years, blaming their own failures on everything from poverty to the breakdown of the society’s order except for themselves. He observed her for a long moment. Azelma Thénardier would always live a hard life. But she would do so honorably—admirably—with her head held high.

And he was willing to offer what support he could.

“The police lost quite a few of its informants to the uprising, you know.”

Azelma looked at him with incredulity. “Me, helping coppers?”

“Think about it.”

She scrunched her nose as if catching a whiff of something unpleasant. “Yeah, I’ll _think_ about it.”

Javert did nothing to suppress his faint smile. He knew she would.

He made no move to stop her when she became uncomfortable under his scrutiny and started to turn away. He would see her again, Paris’s inspector watching over the city’s poor and wretched, protecting the wealthy and the destitute alike. Perhaps one day, she would rise above her roots and nurture a family of her own, built on honest work and her resourcefulness. Perhaps another day would come sooner when he would work with her in the capacity as colleagues, both under the Prefecture’s directives, and Javert knew he would not harbor even a hint of contempt in his heart toward someone who had proven herself to be different from her family and honorable in her own way.

He watched Azelma as she crossed the bridge that led northward from the Prefecture, his eyes following the familiar form as it became a small dot and blended into the distance.

The sun was beginning to set, and he knew it was time to return to his quarters. It wasn’t filled with warmth and love like Valjean’s home, but it was the best he could manage for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for the main story! You may have noticed that Cosette is the only one who never got a section written from her POV. This was a decision I had to make when tying all the loose ends together: to either forgo hearing her narrative voice or to keep a section I had written that no longer fit into the story after the plot took some twists and turns. In the end, I decided to cut out the only Cosette section I had written. But since she was the character that was driving the story forward, I hope she was tangible enough of a character with and that her own growth and development were visible.
> 
> Epilogue to come, and then this story will be done.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading!


	19. Epilogue - When Winter Comes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. I should have known better when I thought "Oh, I can just wrap up the story with a couple thousand more words." Ha! But the story is now _done_ and I present to you the final chapter, devoted to Jean Valjean and Javert!

_Inspector Javert is back_. This was the latest gossip, the only topic of note, the words buzzing with a life of their own and spreading like fire among the _gamins_ and gutter dwellers of Paris. The formidable policeman was once again seen patrolling the streets after a month-long absence. There was no mistaking his identity. The man stuck to the same routine: side streets and alleyways at night where illicit activities were likely to transpire, as if the old hound could sniff the scent of crimes ahead of time so he could burst onto the scene fully prepared, with cuffs and gendarmes in tow.

Most of the poor but law-abiding souls among the gutter dwellers did not mind it so much. Inspector Javert never picked fights with the blameless. Better the devil you know, they said. And this devil chased other devils. Those notorious terrorizers who once trampled on their own and exploited the already poor seemed to have vanished after that night when fire devastated the warehouse near the quay. The infamous Thénardier was captured and hanged, or so the rumor went. All Javert’s doing. For several weeks now, fear had struck the hearts of all remaining criminals so that no one had yet dared to step into the power void left behind by the Patron-Minette. One misstep and Javert might come after you, said one hushed voice to another. Pity the unfortunate wretch who fell into the hands of Inspector Javert.

Yet something was different since the inspector’s reappearance, though no one could point a finger to the precise change. He was not any less severe, no: Inspector Javert continued to make arrests and terrify _gamins_. But when those about to be cuffed fell on their knees and begged for mercy, it was as if the man who once only knew to turn a deaf ear had now learned to listen. Gerard was one such witness to the inspector’s strange behavior. Having stolen a loaf of bread in hope of feeding his family, he had pleaded for mercy in front of an impassive, stone-faced inspector. Inspector Javert arrested him nonetheless. But where Gerard had expected to be sentenced to hard labor, the judge had glanced at the inspector before he turned to Gerard and pronounced only imprisonment. When Gerard returned from prison several months later, he never stole again.

It would be presumptuous to attribute Gerard’s good fortune to the inspector, of course, for Inspector Javert continued to enforce the law with such a fierceness that one would easily be fooled into thinking he was the only agent of the police in the city. And thus after some debate, the gutter dwellers decided that the inspector’s supposed change was simply their imagination. They continued to whisper among themselves, alerting one another of the inspector’s coming and going: _Inspector Javert is back._

In the shadows, a small form seemingly made up of all limbs huddled in a corner. She lifted her head—for the matted hair, though unruly, marked her as a young girl—and inclined her ears to the whispered words recounting the fearsome inspector’s arrests. Five young men caught in the act of thievery. Inexplicably, the inspector did not also arrest the _gamins_ unfortunate enough to become associated with the crime by having drawn nigh due to their curiosity. Instead, they received a stern lecture on minding their own business and never approaching the site of a crime. Though shaken, nothing harmful befell these younger boys, though they, too, now regarded Inspector Javert with fear.

The voices droned on, and the girl ceased to pay attention. After all, none of her companions was saying what she did not already know. _Inspector Javert is back_. The girl smiled. Yes. He was back.

-

_Dear Inspector,_

_Please forgive me for writing to you at the Prefecture, for I do not know where to send this letter to your home. You departed so suddenly a month ago. I had hoped to express my gratitude to you in person. Seeing how this may not be possible in the near future, please accept this letter as my deepest appreciation to you for bringing Cosette home._

_JV_

_Valjean,_

_Your gratitude is misplaced. You should thank Azelma and Musichetta. Please do not send further correspondence to the Prefecture. It is improper for me to conduct personal business while working. You have no more outstanding issues with the police._

_J_

_Javert,_

_Where do you live?_

_JV_

-

Jean Valjean stood in front of the coat stand, considering the likelihood of being scolded by Cosette if he were to brave the January weather with only his light yellow coat as outer protection. He felt warm—the hearth inside the house was brightly lit—and tried as he may, Valjean could not become accustomed to living in warmth in this first winter since he had moved from the shed in the garden to his own bed chamber inside the house. He would rather remain inside the shed, but Cosette would have none of it. And now that she had both Musichetta and Toussaint on her side to drown out his protests, Valjean found himself standing by the door, eager for a stroll in the frigid weather to halt the sweat threatening to drench his body. He would go give alms, he decided as his eyes passed over a tableau of snowy white glimmering from outside through the window. He knew he would not find many beggars along the path that he usually walked. But would not those who had nowhere to go be the most deserving of his charity? Thus satisfied with the knowledge that his alms would aide the most helpless, Valjean put on his yellow coat, filled his pockets with gold and silver coins, and stepped out into the cold.

The first puff of chill air that greeted him was welcomed, and Jean Valjean breathed in a lungful of icy weather, finding beauty in the bleak landscape of the garden. Beyond the gate, Rue Plumet was undisturbed, still sleeping beneath a blanket of snow. He knew the busier streets of Paris would have been cleared of snow by now, but his purpose was to find the untended streets that would lead to untended hearts, those left to shiver and suffer alone away from society’s conscience. But God knew the poor, the widowed, and the orphans, and Valjean would gladly go where no one was willing to tread. Stepping into the street, he let his feet wander as he occupied his mind with silent prayers. He thanked God for providing for him and his household—a house full of people!—and asked the Almighty to guide his steps to the needy.

He did not know how many turns he made or how many alleys he entered. Before long, his boots were soaked through from clumps of snow clinging to the surface of leather worn thin from years of use. He made no attempt to drain the water out; his boots would only fill up with melted snow again. His feet were kept warmer anyway by swimming in water than if he had put on two pairs of stockings. He recalled the man to whom he had given two gold coins about ten minutes ago. The man was huddled under a broken bridge while claiming he was not cold. He had no shoe.

He passed a juncture point where multiple streets intersected one with another. Deciding against the clean streets that would lead him to gated houses and overpriced cafés, he turned into a humble, snow-covered street that was lined with houses. Tenements for laborers struggling to keep up with their monthly rent. Valjean’s heart ached for the working poor who were but one rent payment away from being thrown out into the streets. They were like the workers in his factory at Montreuil-sur-Mer, when even his generous pay could not free everybody from the mire of poverty. The people living on this street may not need his silver today, but if he returned next week, next month, or next year, would some of them now shivering inside their apartments for refusing to waste a firelog be forced out of their homes to shiver in the open?

His eyes scanned the rows of houses and landed on a figure three buildings away, hidden in the shadows of a side wall but visibly shaking from cold even as the person was trying to be inconspicuous. This person was trying to merge with the side of the building, so cold was he that he seemed to believe he could leech warmth from the wall by imagining fireplace and steaming tea passing through stone to greet him on the other side. The man—for Valjean could see whiskers on this person’s face as he walked closer—was huddled into himself, head buried into a threadbare coat with no hat. He wondered if the man was hungry as well as cold. Had he tried to beg from the occupants of the house he now leaned against?

He reached a hand into his pocket, closing a fist around several gold coins that could perhaps buy the man temporary reprieve. Keeping his steps steady, Valjean approached slowly but openly, letting the sound of snow crunching beneath his steps be signal of his presence. For a brief moment, the man’s back tensed, but he kept his face burrowed inside his coat and did not turn to face him.

“A _sou_ for the poor, Monsieur?” the man spoke into muffled rags.

Valjean shook his head even though he knew the man could not see him. “A _sou_ will buy you nothing,” he said. “I will give you enough to stay out of the cold, perhaps to rent a room until the coldest months are over.”

Hunched shoulders stiffened, and the man seemed to be burying himself further into his coat. Even his words had acquired distance between them. “You are toying with me. I do not want your pity. Leave me alone.”

Compassion swelled Valjean’s heart. Surely this man had not experienced kindness in a long time! He was right to be suspicious, for who would refuse to throw a wretch a morsel of bread only to offer a feast in a mansion instead?

“It is no pity, Monsieur, only a repayment of what someone once did for me when I was equally destitute,” he said in a reassuring voice. “Please, allow me to take you out of the cold and into shelter.”

“No!” the man said, clearly agitated now. “Let me be!”

“Monsieur, you will not survive long in your condition. Let me help you –”

“No!”

The man’s refusal echoed loudly in the street, like the ringing of his ears in his memory, long after Mayor Madeleine’s hunting rifle had pierced through the woods. “What’s going on? Who’s out there?” a startled female voice came from inside the house. He then heard steps and the creaking sound of a window opening.

Before his mind could process what was happening, Valjean suddenly found himself with his back against the wall, with a hand covering his mouth while another hand was gripping the collar of his coat to hold him in place. The man that he had approached was transforming before him as if a worm into a butterfly, into –

It was just as well that Javert had covered his mouth and kept him from blurting out his name.

“What the _devil_ are you doing here, Jean Valjean?” came the unforgiving hiss, no less venomous in a whisper than if Javert had screamed each word on top of a hill. Valjean could not turn his head; he was staring into pure fury. “Of all the unsavory men that my operation was supposed to attract… have you lost your mind? No, do not answer that. Of course you have. It is a frigid January day. You are a good but utterly _foolish_ man. What better way to waste your time and money than wandering around Paris to give alms?”

He could not speak with Javert still clutching enough collar to choke his neck. He supposed it mattered little. Javert did not seem to be in a state to accept apologies.

He was not fearful, for he knew Javert would never harm him. Instead, a sudden burst of joy seized him with such intensity that it took him by surprise. Javert was alive! In the nearness, he could see Javert’s eyes widening slightly as if he could read his emotion and was confused by it. Valjean did not fully comprehend it as well. If someone were to ask him why the sight of the inspector was drawing a smile to his face, he would not have a ready answer to give.

It was… good to see the inspector again. He knew he had no reason to believe the man to be in peril, but Javert worked in a dangerous job and he had once attempted to take his own life. Not a fortnight had passed by without his heart suddenly overcome with dread and his mind succumbing to the sinister thought: _How do you know that Javert is still alive?_ What if Javert’s death was announced on one of those days when he’d missed his daily reading of _le Moniteur_? What if there was no one to stop him at the Pont au Change this time, or no Chabouillet to set him back onto his feet after a bout of hysteria? He did not know why he should care. But he did.

Six months of silence had been difficult to bear, six months since Javert failed to respond to his letter. Valjean knew he should be relieved to be finally free of Javert, but instead he had been anxious, and he did not fully realize the extent of his worry until now, when a healthy, living Javert was breathing right in front of him.

A female voice muttered indecipherable words with annoyance and with a loud bang, the window closed. Tension eased around Javert’s eyes. They were no longer in danger of being discovered.

The hand was removed from his mouth. The other hand gripping his collar loosened.

“Javert,” he choked out. _Hello. Are you well? Where have you been?_

Javert showed no sign of having heard. He stared at him with unreadable eyes. He was every bit the uncompromising inspector by outward appearance. But Valjean thought he saw a hint of that other Javert, the Javert who ate plums and drank coffee with him, who admitted his struggles in understanding goodness and mercy, and who had knelt before him, weeping, only to be lifted to his feet again a stronger man.

That Javert was still here, for by the smallest of measurements, his brows unfurrowed and his expression softened.

“You should have said no. Then I would have left you alone,” Javert murmured.

“No to what?”

“When I asked you for a _sou_.”

“But that would be uncharitable.”

“That’s what most people would say.”

Valjean supposed he was correct. Javert, who likely had had all the possible scenarios rehearsed, had as usual forgotten to account for charity. Nevertheless, he felt the need to be sure, to hear it from the man’s lips: “You were not truly begging for money, were you? If you are ever in want, you only need to ask –”

Javert barked a laugh. He felt it through the vibration passing from Javert’s hand still connected to his throat. “But of course, you are not most people. Nor are you a criminal. No, I was not really begging, even someone as dense as you should realize by now. The one I was waiting for, he would have answered _sous do not come cheap, beggar. You give me a sou_. That would have been my signal to capture.”

“Ah,” Valjean said, half comprehending, not understanding Javert’s words save that he had somehow ruined the policeman’s plans.

Javert eyed him up and down. As he did so, a door seemed to have closed between them, ushering the unmasked version of Javert back into hiding. The hint of an almost-smile was gone, replaced by a frown. “You look like a drowned mongrel. Go home, Valjean.”

The hand released his collar.

He understood the dismissal: Javert was back to being fully the inspector. He had no desire to tolerate his presence longer than necessary. In all the months when he had wondered whether the inspector was hale, the man had likely never spared a thought on him.

“I never thanked you, Javert, for –”

“There is nothing to thank,” Javert cut him off harshly.

He swallowed the rest of his words. Javert wanted no reminder of their past. Was this not the reason he left his home that day, to finally be free from having anything to do with him?

Valjean nodded, feeling resigned. “Very well. Good day, Inspector.”

He could feel Javert’s eyes on him as he walked away. It would be easy to continue down the street, to take himself out of the man’s life and never to see him again. That was what Javert wanted, was it not—Jean Valjean’s file closed forever, no more guilty criminal to bring to justice? But something deep in his heart protested: had he and Javert not moved beyond playing thief and policeman? Had they not held each other’s hands, felt each other’s pulses that day when Javert admitted to feeling lost, the inspector listening to him while he gently admonished him to never again be alone?

Valjean paused and turned around. Javert was leaning against the house again, shivering despite himself. He looked like a hollow shell of his former self, and Valjean was unconvinced that this was all intentional disguise.

Javert had been alone.

Indignation flaring inside him, Valjean marched toward Javert. He did not stop when he was near enough to see Javert opening his mouth to protest. He kept advancing, which silenced the inspector and forced him to take several steps back. Memories of the barricades flashed before his eyes: Javert against the wall, bound by ropes, captured yet unbroken. Here they were again, in the same position. But things would be different this time. He would neither send Javert away nor leave until he received answers.

He was now near enough to see Javert’s breaths turning white in the cold. He could feel those same warm puffs against his face. Javert was the taller man, but Valjean managed to loom over him, letting his displeasure known as he stared downward, fixing a level gaze on wary eyes staring up at him.

“You left,” he said. It was all he could say without the trembling of his voice betraying the emotions that were welling up inside him. It was not as if he needed to specify. They both knew the day he was talking about.

Javert looked away. “Your business with the police ended that day. It is proper protocol to let free citizens enjoy their lives in safety and in the privacy of their homes.”

“Police protocol? Do you truly believe that? Yes, of course you do. But –”

“You’ve gained your freedom. You are reunited with your daughter. You can go about your life as Jean Valjean and no harm will befall you. You have everything you need!”

He felt his eyes narrowing. “Do I, now? And what do you know about me or my needs?”

“What do I need to know? You are no longer a wanted man. You are wealthy. Anything you lack you can now openly acquire.”

“You are not serious, surely? Why would I – no, _how_ would I –”

“You have people around to show you. Cosette might be sheltered, but Pontmercy was born into money. And that Musichetta girl. She is worldly. Ask her how to acquire things.”

The street was silent save their voices, but all Valjean could hear was his mind shouting at him, telling him that Javert was utterly serious and utterly blind. “You did not let me finish,” he began, “what I need –”

“You can buy. Believe me. I have seen the houses of the wealthy. All of their happiness is purchased.”

“Javert!” he exclaimed, exasperated. The inspector’s face was flushed—Valjean didn’t know if he was angry or merely agitated for having his operation further delayed. He wondered if Javert was in the position to understand, if his words would get through. He breathed in deeply, breathed out, then took in another breath.

He spoke when he was certain that his voice would be calm and gentle, “Very well, Javert. Tell me then: how much do you cost? What must I pay to purchase my friend back?”

Valjean could think of no other word to describe the face Javert was wearing, eyes wide and his mouth hanging open, save _shocked_. A sense of sadness washed over him. After risking their lives for each other, after baring their very souls to each other, Javert still did not understand.

He sighed, straightening his back so he was no longer standing over Javert.

“Javert, you are a friend, and friends maintain contact with each other,” he said gently. “Would you have gone to such lengths to search for a mere convict’s daughter? You may not be willing to admit your kindness toward me in words, but your actions have proven yourself to be my truest ally. And to have stood by me during those darkest days when I thought I had lost Cosette –”

“I abandoned you in the cellar.” The words were forceful, the tone sharp. Javert was angry at himself. “I did not even have the courage to face you! I had to ask Marcel to send you a note.”

He did not think Javert had abandoned him. But Javert’s hands were balled into fists and the mayor in him remembered a very stubborn inspector insisting on being dismissed for a crime he did not commit. Disagreement would only pull Javert tighter like a bow already strung too taut. He needed to calm the man.

“If that is what you choose to think, then please believe me when I say that no harm came out of it.”

He waited. After a long moment, Javert’s shoulders eased by a small fraction. Good.

“I will not insist, but you are welcome in my home at any time. Do not be a stranger, my friend.”

Javert did not answer—he knew that he would not. But no refusal was thrown his way, nor did Javert flinch when he pressed a hand to his shoulder. Valjean took the liberty to interpret this as a yes.

When he walked away this time, his heart felt light. So this was what hope felt like, full of anticipation and _certainty_. There was no hope in Toulon. At Montreuil-sur-Mer, his hope for freedom as Madeleine was never more than a fear of discovery. He had raised Cosette knowing that he never deserved her, and so he was always prepared to lose her one day, never hoping for anything better. Even when he dared to believe Monsieur le Secrétaire’s words that his pardon would be granted, the glimmer of possibility was no more than an illusion—he had needed to prepare himself for the worst to get through that gut-wrenching month.

But this. This hope was solid, a matter of when, not if. He would not coerce Javert to seek his company. He did not even ask him again for his address. But as the distance between them lengthened, he knew he would see Javert again, and that when they did, it would be a willing meeting between friends, the coming together of equals.

-

Javert glared. He could not believe this—had never conceived of the possibility. It was terrible enough that he had been outwitted. But now he was subjected to a smile and he was powerless to stop it, for it was not his place to demand his superior to cease his display of sentimentality.

The infuriating man, that blasted Jean Valjean, had found a way around his refusal to receive further correspondence sent to him at work. The invitation was sent to the Prefecture—mailed to Monsieur le Secrétaire but addressed to him. Chabouillet had handed him the fancy envelope with amusement in his eyes; he scowled. Of all the ways he imagined Valjean would interact with the police, becoming an ally with the Secretary to the Prefect had never once crossed his mind.

Yet here he was, called into Chabouillet’s office and subjected to an unspoken order that he knew he must obey, inappropriate as it was for his patron to exert his authority over such an absurd matter: go to the wedding.

Javert made no attempt to object. He knew Chabouillet would force a day of leave on him if he were to refuse.

And so on this third Sunday of February, Javert found himself first sitting in the last pew in a church, then later at a far table inside the Gillenormand palace for a celebration so extravagant that it was beyond what he could have possibly dreamed up. Over a hundred guests filled up the great hall—most of whom he was sure were known to neither the bride nor the groom. They were present only in hope of currying favor with M. Gillenormand. Two sets of musicians were hired to provide music for the dancing. One quartet was currently playing something fast paced as the other quartet stood ready to replace the first team should the musicians become weary. And everywhere he turned there was food. Food at two long tables on opposite ends of the great hall; food on his plate at the table, never ceasing to be empty from the five-course dinner that was served; and food walking around the hall on trays and trolleys in an endless stream, coming in and out from the kitchen.

Despite sitting far apart from any crowd, Javert felt all eyes were on him and all bent heads locked in conversation talking about him, whispers of how ill-at-ease Inspector Javert was conducting himself among a higher class of society to which he did not belong. He was alone; the unsavory company he was placed at the same table with had all turned into drunkards and disappeared into some unknown parts of the estate. As if taking pity on him, several of the female workers, all named Nicolette, continually approached him offering champagne, coffee, tea, juice, water… enough to hydrate a desert creature preparing for a month-long journey through scorched land. Several male servers named Basque also walked by offering finger foods in addition to the lavish meal that was served earlier in the evening. He’d politely refused; he had already eaten more than he ought in his attempt to hide his unease, to appear to be doing something, anything, with his hands. And so he sat and pretended to observe the guests dancing at the center of the great hall.

At one of the tables closer to the dance area, Azelma met his eyes and waved a hand in greeting. She then turned her attention back to the plate in front of her, piled impossibly high with every delicacy one could imagine. He watched with incredulity as she annihilated the mountain of food as if every morsel threatened to grow feet and run away from her if she didn’t shove them into her mouth in time. Dear God above, the girl must have been starved.

“When I was her age, I could eat a horse,” a familiar voice came up from behind him.

Javert snorted. The sight of Valjean was like a rope tossed to a drowning man. He clutched at it, relieved that for the next while, his presence here would be legitimate. He gestured at the table. “You have your choice of seats. The degenerates all left.”

“Hmm.”

He watched as Valjean drew near and sat down next to him. He was wearing a perfectly tailored suit, and he wondered how many days it must have taken the girl to convince him to go get outfitted, to let Pontmercy spend his money on him. The girl must have gone along to advise him of his selections—he shuddered at the thought of Valjean choosing yellow or some equally gaudy color that the tailor might try to push on him. The forest green of the outer coat fit him. The fabric was heavy but soft. It snugly hugged the shape of Valjean’s broad shoulders and then narrowed at the waist. The tail of the coat draped elegantly over Valjean’s thighs. The waistcoat was an item of luxury as well, with gleaming silver buttons against a backdrop of black that might have been a dark brown under a different light. Underneath the waistcoat was a fine shirt. Most likely silk.

He did not think it proper to observe further down, and so he looked up. The top hat, black and spotless and made of the finest material, covered the mass of white hair that he knew lay underneath. Without the white hair, Javert could trick his mind into believing that they were back at Montreuil-sur-Mer, that both mayor and inspector had merely experienced a nightmare and were now sat shoulder to shoulder at some stranger’s wedding banquet. And Jean Valjean the mayor would continue to bring good fortune to the town because he, Javert, now knew to render every last drop of respect and honor that was due him.

Valjean turned his head, and Javert could see white eyebrows, white tufts of hair beneath the hat, and lines crinkled around Valjean’s eyes as he greeted him, lines that were not there ten years ago. A pang of wistfulness twisted inside him. This was Jean Valjean in Paris. They were at his daughter’s wedding. The past decade had been real.

“Thank you for coming, Javert.”

“You sent the invitation to my superior. I had no choice.”

“Now will you finally tell me where you live?”

Would he?

“Perhaps.”

The smile he was graced with was beautiful. It wasn’t one of those smiles that Madeleine used to cast indiscriminately upon the denizens of Montreuil-sur-Mer. This smile was particular, genuine. It reached his eyes. Javert had only recalled Valjean smiling like this at Fantine and later at Cosette. He felt utterly undeserving to have been given the same grace.

They watched the dancing in companionable silence.

“Did you ever apprehend the criminal you were trying to catch last month?” Valjean asked.

“No.”

“Ah. I’ve ruined your operation.”

He waved a hand. “It is no matter. That person is a smuggler. His livelihood depends on moving merchandises and money around. I will secure a trail to his activities again soon enough.”

The slow dance ended and the quartet started playing a livelier tune. At this, many of the younger revelers joined in the dance. Musichetta, dressed in an elegant wine-colored dress, accepted the hand of a young man. They would dance all night, Javert surmised. This was the lifestyle that Musichetta was born and raised into.

Valjean’s voice floated in over the music. “Will you come visit me, now that Cosette will be gone?”

Gone?

“You do not plan to move into this place?”

Valjean shook his head. “I was born a simple peasant. I do not belong with the _bourgeois_.”

“Nonsense! Have you forgotten that you were once mayor?”

“And every dinner and party I was forced to go to had been miserable.” He grimaced, as if reliving a past more unpleasant than his time at the bagne. “No, I do not belong with them.”

There was a ruefulness in that voice that caused Javert to look, to truly see the man before him. The proud father at the wedding ceremony had been glowing with happiness; a more blissful man he could not have found when the priest pronounced Marius and Cosette man and wife. But talks of leaving Cosette seemed to have cast a shadow on him, and Valjean suddenly looked weary. Old.

“Musichetta will still be at the house, with Toussaint to look after me. I shall be fine, Javert.”

“And what will you do? Read the Scriptures everyday until you are forced to eat? Give alms until you spend your very last _sou_? Sleep the day away? Do not try to fool me, Valjean. Your life until now has been fixated upon the girl. You will fare much better to continue to live near her.”

“But she is married now. She no longer needs me.”

“She very much still needs you! Besides, that dolt of a husband of hers owes his very life to you. At the least, he should open his home to you.”

Valjean did not respond for a long moment. Javert almost believed that he had convinced him. But then Valjean shook his head, and he was forced to acknowledge how weary Valjean had become. There was a heaviness in the movement, as if his head weighed too much. “I do not want to impose…”

“Impose! I will have you know, Jean Valjean, that you have never imposed anything but kindness onto others. And your kindness is no imposition at all.” He sought Valjean’s gaze and held it. The uncertainty staring back at him told him that Valjean did not believe a word he had said. He sighed. “It is your decision, of course. If you choose to remain at the Rue Plumet, then at the least I hope those two will have enough heart to visit you.”

“Javert!”

He glared at his target across the hall. Marius was dressed in fine clothes and glowing in happiness. Yet he still managed to look like an imbecile. “Forgive me for not having the highest regard for your son-in-law,” he scoffed.

Valjean smiled. “I know.”

Nicolette passed by, offering more wine. They both declined.

“And will you visit, Javert?”

He could feel Valjean’s eyes on him as he considered the question. Would he? Why would Valjean want him in his home?

“I suppose I must. It would be hypocritical of me to stay away after accusing Pontmercy for not having a heart.”

“Javert, this isn’t about debt.”

“Then why?” he asked, finally giving words to what he wanted to know for a while now. “You call me friend, but when have I ever been a friend to you? I have hunted you across the years. You say this is in the past. Very well. Then let us speak of the present. My search for your daughter was duty. Beyond duty, I can offer you nothing.”

Valjean held his gaze. The lighting in the great hall cast a soft glow on his face, drawing out the kindness he had come to know so well. But beneath the kindness there was a hint of ruefulness, and his heart twisted. Why must he always disappoint Valjean?

“Do you truly not know?”

He shook his head.

“Javert, you have known me for over thirty years. You knew me at my worst. And then you knew me again at Montreuil, when I was struggling to be good. You are the only one who can look at me and see both a thief and a pardoned man, neither condoning one nor spurning the other. I cannot say the same for anyone else.

“Since Toulon, I have been living as a man without a past. I have been Madeleine, Urbaine Fabre, Ultime Fauchelevent… and at one point Marius and his friends used to call me LeBlanc. To Cosette, I am Father. These are all false.” He held up a hand, stopping Javert’s protest. “I know what you want to say: I am Cosette’s father by care if not by blood. Perhaps. But do you not see? I do not have a claim to her. She may consider me a father, but like everything else, this too was built upon a lie.

“Why won’t I move into this place, you asked? It is because I am tired of pretending. I no longer want to live as a man without a history. And so I shall live in my own place and bear the full burden of Jean Valjean. I am not yet alone, of course. But one day Musichetta too will marry and Toussaint will become too old to serve me. When that time comes, I think… Javert, I think it will be good to see you, so I can remember who I am. You offer knowledge and memory. Yet you offer them without condemnation. I am grateful.”

Valjean appeared as fragile as his voice was brittle, and Javert was suddenly back to that night at the Pont au Change, gazing down into the water and seeing both Jean Valjean and Madeleine, one indistinguishable from another. He knew the many faces of Valjean. He _knew_ Valjean, then and now, and Valjean knew him.

_Do not be alone._

He swallowed the lump forming at his throat. Valjean had said those words to him once. He wondered if they weren’t now more suitable for a father grieving at his daughter’s wedding.

He extended a hand to cover Valjean’s. “I shall visit you, Jean Valjean. Do not forget: you still need to show me how to make jam. Since I own neither garden nor fruit trees, I must go to you.”

When Valjean smiled at him this time, he could not stop his mind from comparing the hope emerging from sadness to the sight of stars after a storm, barely visible behind fading clouds but would go on to shine even brighter, lighting up the darkest sky.

-

Javert was a thorough and efficient harvester, Valjean decided as he sat on the garden bench, passing his gaze over branch after branch that had been denuded of fruits. Only moments ago, apples had bowed the trees’ arms low toward the ground, and now they were raised once again toward heaven. They had just entered the apple harvesting season. If Javert continued his diligence in working the garden each time Chabouillet forced several days of leave upon him—by now such a regular occurrence that even the inspector had resigned himself in acceptance—then they would have an overabundance of apples of different varieties to send to Cosette and Marius by the time they reached the end of autumn.

_“Come visit when you are on leave again, Javert. Your company would be most welcome.”_

_“You have already shown me how to make jam.”_

_“Then I will show you other things. Summer has begun. We shall tend to the strawberries. Then in the fall, there will be apples. There are many uses for apples.”_

_“Should we not first wait for the fruits to grow?”_

_“Have you forgotten what I used to be, Javert?”_

_“What you used to be? I thought –”_

_“Pruner, Javert. I was once a pruner. Trees bear more fruits when they are well tended. It is as our Lord once said, we shall bear much fruit when we allow him to tend to our souls.”_

_“You don’t need to turn everything into a sermon, you know.”_

_“So you will let me show you how to prune trees? If we begin this month with the apple trees, then they will grow strong over the summer.”_

_“And afterwards? Fruits take months to grow.”_

_“Then we shall tend to the strawberries.”_

 

It was perhaps appropriate that he and Javert should develop their rapport over the ripening of apples, a late-season fruit. Neither was young anymore. He did not yet think of Javert as old, although the man with graying hair and patches of white near his temples was a far cry from the stern young guard who had distinguished himself in Toulon and thereby distinguished himself to a formerly hateful convict. Now, Javert would turn to meet his eyes and Valjean would smile. The warmth in his heart would spread into his limbs. It was like the last of the summer heat that was warming the garden today, the sunbeams nurturing and gentle where they had once been harsh and unforgiving during the height of summer.

Javert tossed an apple his way and he caught it easily, the inspector’s aim precise and the pruner’s hand sure in taking hold of the fruit of his labor. He bit into the fruit’s sweet flesh and swallowed a burst of juice. This year’s apples had a particularly healthy glow to them. He understood the allure of a perfect fruit. Once upon a time, the first man and woman had bitten into the forbidden fruit and had their eyes opened to know good and evil. He took another bite of the apple, allowing his heart to be opened to know sweetness. He felt a lightness inside him, a vitality that no longer whispered of loneliness. Javert’s presence had brought joy into this final chapter of his life.

He locked eyes with Javert as he took a third bite, which for unknown reasons had rendered the man paralyzed. The crook of Javert’s left arm was full of apples, and Valjean worried for several seconds that some of them might fall onto the ground. But the apples remained as still as Javert. He had the thought that he would always remember the sight before him, that it was even now being seared into his memory. He must be smiling, for the inspector’s lips twitched upward as if in response, and the small smile, more than anything, flooded him with warmth.

“We will make applesauce with half of the red ones and bake bread and cake with the green ones,” he said when Javert came near. “The remaining red ones we shall eat and cook with them.”

“No apple jam?” Javert asked.

“That will be for later rounds of harvest. Patience, Inspector. There will come a time, quite soon I suppose, when you will see so many apples that you will long for the day when the pears become ready.”

Another small smile. “I look forward to it.”

Valjean answered with his own curve of lips. _When_ the pears ripened, not if. He looked up at Javert and warmth once again filled his heart. Winter would arrive soon enough. But even when the garden would turn gray, there would still be trees and beauty and life.

And he and Javert would welcome the cold together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we've come to the end at last! Thank you so much for reading and for everyone who sent me encouragement along the way. Comments are much appreciated -- I'd very much love to know what you think!


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